


Une Photographie D'Amour

by PumpkinspiceLou (CatyDreamDwyer)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, And a little bit of angst at the end, And an attempted smut scene, But mostly fluff, Fluff, Frenchboy Harry, Louis' thoughts like to interupt, M/M, SO MUCH FLUFF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-07-23
Packaged: 2018-02-10 03:43:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2009661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatyDreamDwyer/pseuds/PumpkinspiceLou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>But how can anyone expect him to say no to this boy? With his mess of curls and shining green eyes and hopeful smile and </em>fucking dimples<em>! It’s so endearing, and before Louis can even give a second thought, the word “deal” is falling from his lips.</em></p><p>Or the one where Louis gets lost in Paris and Harry shows him around in exchange for a photo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Une Photographie D'Amour

**Author's Note:**

> The story is based off [this prompt](http://www.reversecowharry.tumblr.com/post/53786895591/the-one-where-louis-is-a-foreign-exchange) by [this lovely](http://www.certainfates.tumblr.com) :) Thanks for letting me write this and I hope the story does your prompt justice! :D

_One more hour_ , Louis thinks with a heavy sigh as he shifts yet again in his seat. _Honestly, for a supposedly high end train, these seats are really uncomfortable. Did they use bricks instead of that white puffy shit that’s usually stuffed in chairs?_

It doesn’t help that he really doesn’t want to be there. He doesn’t want to be on this stupid trip to “the glorious city of love” as his French teacher had so aptly put it. 

_Complete bollocks._

The only reason Louis agreed to this month long summer immersion program in the first place is because the cute boy who sat two seats in front of him in class agreed— _his name is Zayn, and he has perfect cheekbones and even perfecter eyelashes that flutter against said cheekbones. Seriously, is it humanly possible to have eyelashes that long?_ —but then, cute boy’s girlfriend also agreed to join. 

_Stupid bitch._

Louis tears his eyes away from the window and looks to the sleeping boy in the seat beside him. He deliberates for a second, then begins poking him incessantly in the arm.

“Liam. Li. Liam.”

Liam opens one eye to glare at him. “What, Louis?”

“City of love, eh?” 

Louis wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, a cheeky grin spreading across his face. Liam doesn’t look impressed. There’s not even the usual twitch of amusement at the corner of his lips. 

“Did you forget about Sophia? We’re still together, you know.” 

“What happens in Paris stays in Paris,” Louis says, adding in an over exaggerated wink. “We can find you a nice French girl.” 

“Louis, mate, I love you, but _shut up_.” Liam shifts in his seat and closes his eyes again, presumably going back to sleep. 

“Great talk,” Louis quips. He digs around in his pocket and pulls out his phone, now determined to break 150 on Flappy Bird. 

_One more hour._

\---

“Class! Écoutez! Écoutez!” Madame Trent bellows over the students hoarded together in Gare du Nord. “Before you meet your ‘famille d’accueil’, we will be taking a brief tour of Paris.”

Louis rolls his eyes as Madame Trent lists off all the places the class will be visiting, as if they weren’t all given an itinerary already. He sidles up to Liam and lays his head on the taller boy’s shoulder. 

“Li,” Louis whines, “I couldn’t make it past 132!” 

Liam rolls his eyes fondly. “We’re meant to be listening.”

“Blah blah blah. Baguettes! Snails! Berets! Who cares?” 

Liam slings an arm around Louis’ shoulders as the group starts to migrate out onto the streets of Paris. 

“Fine, but if you get lost again like when we went to Windsor, I’m not helping you.” 

“Pshhhh! It’s like you have no faith in me!” 

“Something like that,” Liam teases, and Louis shoves him hard in response.

\---

Louis takes a lick of his newly acquired Italian ice, courtesy of the ice cream trolley up the path, and stares up at the big, metal structure, tilting his head for a different perspective. It doesn’t look all that impressive to him. He is sure he made something similar in year five, and yet people didn’t seem to revel over that. _They should’ve; that was one brilliant lollipop stick tower._ Louis goes to tell Liam this, but when he turns, there is no one standing beside him. In fact, there is no one anywhere near him. His class seems to have vanished into thin air.

_Well fuck._

Louis spins around, desperate to find a familiar face, but he comes up empty handed. He hated when Liam was right. With a frustrated groan, he digs in his rucksack for the map every student had been given. The map is little use, though. No matter which way Louis holds it up, he isn’t sure where he is and he definitely has no idea of how to get to where he needs to be. Why did he think it was a good to kill his phone playing Flappy Bird on the train? 

Chewing on his lip and twiddling the map in his hands, Louis looks around again. There has to be someone willing to help. There is a nice looking elderly couple heading his way down the path. _But will they speak any English..?_ There’s a group of tourists but they appear to be just spinning around and taking pictures of everything and anything… _yeah they’ll be little to no help._ There is a painter who’s set up shop on the grass (but “painter” just screams snob to Louis, so he’ll pass). Finally, there’s a guy with a camera, who looks about Louis’ age, sitting on a bench, only he isn’t taking pictures of the landmark. He looks friendly enough, and the fact he’s taking pictures of people not sights suggests that he isn’t a tourist, or so Louis hopes. With a shrug, Louis makes his way over to the boy, shoving his map in front of camera lens. 

“You get me here?” Louis tries to speak in a clear and loud voice as he points to a spot on the map. 

The boy lowers his camera and blinks up at Louis, but he remains quiet. Louis has to admit, the guy has nice eyes. Such a piercing shade of green. _Focus. Class gone, not eyes._

“You. Get. Me. Here?” Louis repeats slower and with more enunciation. 

“I speak English,” the boy finally speaks. His voice isn’t what Louis expects. If he’s honest, Louis hates French; the throaty accent as if the speaker has constant phlegm sounds disgusting to him. But this boy’s voice is deep and gruff, and the words actually sound nice flowing from his lips, and the accent that twist his word is just— _alright I’m going to stop that thought right there._

“Oh.” A blush crashes across Louis’ cheeks like a wave, but he is quick to swallow it down. He clears his throat and pushes his fringe back, getting his demeanour back under control. “Great! So you’ll take me here?” 

The boy looks Louis over, his eyes seeming to analyse his whole being, to delve deep into his pores with that one, hard stare. Louis shifts awkwardly under the scrutiny. He didn’t ask for this; he just wants directions really. After a few moments, a smirk begins to pull at the corners of the boy’s lips. 

“I’ll make you a deal,” the boy says. 

“Listen, mate, I don’t do the whole sell your body for things if that’s what you’re suggesting.” Louis tries to keep a straight face, but a smirk threatens to break free. 

The boy lets out a booming laugh, smacking a hand over his mouth in an attempt to stifle it, and Louis can’t help but grin widely at the sound. He wants to hear that sound again. 

_Okay. Calm down. You just met the lad._

“No. No,” the boy clarifies once his laughter has died down to just chuckles. “I’ll take you wherever it is you need to go in exchange for a photo. Deal?”

Louis hesitates. He knows he should decline. What would his mother say? If there’s one thing she drilled into him as a child, it was “stranger danger”. But how can anyone expect him to say no to this boy? With his mess of curls and shining green eyes and hopeful smile and _fucking dimples_! It’s so endearing, and before Louis can even give a second thought, the word “deal” is falling from his lips. 

“Great! Allons-y!” 

The boy starts walking and Louis is quick to follow. They walk in relative silence as they make their way out of the park.

“You never said your name,” the boy speaks up. 

“Oh. It’s Louis.” 

“Harry.” 

“Air-ee. Airrrrrrr-eeeeeee,” Louis pronounces, trying to get the throaty sound right. 

“What’re you doing?” Harry asks. 

“Trying to sound French,” Louis says as if it’s obvious, adding in a wink for good measure. He nudges Harry’s shoulder. “I bet you didn’t know that I wasn’t actually French.” 

“No, I did.” 

Louis scoffs, but a small smile slyly slides across his face. “Whatever. I’m an eighth Belgian so it’s close enough.” 

Harry chuckles and shakes his head. He stops at a blue moped parked just outside the park, and takes one of the helmets, offering it to Louis. 

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.” 

“Come on.” 

“Mate, there is no way—” 

“Do you want me to take you or not?” 

Louis sighs defeated and pulls the helmet over his head before swinging his leg over the seat of the moped. Harry takes the seat in front of him and roars the moped into life. They stay in the parked spot and Louis realises after a moment that Harry is waiting on him. 

_Stop thinking about his long legs and how good they look in those skinny jeans._

Louis hesitates then circles his arms around Harry’s waist. 

_Jesus, he’s hiding abs under his t-shirt._

With Louis secure, Harry tears off from the curb and whizzes down the street. Louis presses his face between Harry’s shoulder blades to shield himself from the wind, but he instantly regrets it. 

_Of course his cologne smells amazing and of course his back flexes with each rev and break of the engine. Stupid French boy._

Luckily, it’s not long before they’re parking along a side street. Harry throws a lean leg over the moped and climbs off, and Louis finally gets a chance to breathe. 

_When did I become the type of guy to obsess over someone’s smell?_

Louis squares his shoulders and slides off of the moped, handing the helmet back to Harry who sets both on the handles. 

“The underground tunnel is this way,” Harry says, leading the way down a set of stairs. Louis follows and when they come up the other end, they’re face to face with the large monument. 

“Arc de Triomphe.” 

“You’re pronouncing it wrong, you know.”

“What?”

“It’s ‘arc’. You’re putting too much stress on the end.” 

“Arrrrrr-c,” Louis says, feeling proud when the other boy cackles again. 

The two boys walk around the monument, reading the names of the generals engraved along the walls and admiring the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. They even race each other up the forty steps to the top. When they get there, Louis’ breath catches as he looks out. The view is amazing; all of Paris laid out before him. He can see the Champs Élysées stretched out and the Eiffel Tower tucked along the horizon. The sun is just setting, and the reds and purples dance along the walls and roofs of the buildings. 

“I think I’ve earned my photo now,” Harry says, drawing Louis from his trance. 

Louis gives his best cheesy smile and holds up two thumbs, as Harry raises his camera to his face. It’s almost weird seeing Harry in his obvious element. The way his large hand works delicately to adjust the focus, the way his curls fall around the edges of the camera, the way he appears to be holding his breath until the shutters goes off, it’s enchanting to Louis. 

_Seriously? How many people have you watched take a picture before?_

Once Harry is satisfied with the photo, the two boys make their way back down to the ground level. Louis looks around one last time, but his class still isn’t here. 

“Damn. I really thought they’d come here.”

“Hmm? Who?” 

“My class. I sort of… lost them.” 

“Well where were they headed next? I can take you there too.”

“It’s hard to say since we were only having a ‘brief’ tour of Paris today. Then we’re going to meet our host families for dinner at some place called Alsace?” 

“L’Alsace? That’s just down les Champs Élysées. I can take you.” 

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I told you I’d take you wherever you needed to go.” 

“Cool.”

The two boys make their way back through the underground tunnel and climb back onto Harry’s moped. Louis will never admit it to anyone, but he holds on a bit tighter around Harry’s waist than before as he watches the different shops and restaurants drift past his sight. Harry wasn’t kidding when he said it was just down the Champs-Elysées, and it’s not long before they’re pulling up in front of the restaurant. Louis steps off the moped and hands the helmet back to Harry. 

“Thanks,” he says. “Okay, bye then…” Louis gives a small wave before turning to walk into the restaurant. He feels strangely forlorn about saying bye to Harry. It’s hard to put his finger on the exact reason why, but there’s no missing the slight sink of his heart in his chest. 

_Get your shit together, Louis. You spent like two hours with the guy._

“Louis, wait!” 

Louis turns back around, praying that the hopeful flutter that stirs between his ribs isn’t evident on his face. He bites the inside of his cheek just to be sure. 

“Yeah?” 

“You owe me another picture. A picture for every place I take you, remember?” 

“Oh… right…” 

Louis gives a small smile as Harry raises his camera and takes the photo. Then, Louis is turning back around towards the restaurant, but he stops mid-step to the door. Before he can think twice about it, he’s spinning around to face Harry and the words are tumbling from his tongue. 

“Doyouwanttoshowmearoundagaintomorrow?” 

“Pardon?” 

“Do you maybe want to, um, take me places tomorrow too? You can still have your picture for each place! Promise!” 

A smile spreads across Harry’s face, dimples on full display. “Deal.”

\---

“Merci!” Louis shouts over his shoulder to Madame Roux as he makes his way down the steps of the house, trying to cover up the fact he almost trips.

Harry is standing there waiting with his moped parked behind him, and Louis can’t help but smile wide at the sight. He had been a bit nervous giving Harry his host family’s address last night—‘he could be a murderer, Louis!’ Liam had scolded. ‘A very fit murderer, Li,’ Louis had huffed in reply—but there wasn’t a regret in sight now.

“Where am I taking you today?” Harry asks as Louis approaches.

Louis reaches into his pocket, pulling out the crumpled sheet that is his class’ itinerary. Smoothing out the creases as best he can, Louis scans the page.

“The point one? Um the Loo-vree?” Louis tries to pronounce. 

“Le Louvre.” Harry corrects, and of course it sounds perfect falling from his lips. 

“Yeah, sure. That.”

“Musée d’Orsay is better.”

“It’s all just art, isn’t it?” Louis grumbles with a roll of his eyes. 

Harry frowns, looking as though Louis’ utterance is something of great offence. Louis can’t help but frown as well. He misses those dimples already— _wait, what?_ But before Louis can even get the start of an apology off the tip of his tongue, Harry is spinning on his heels, pulling on his helmet, and climbing onto his moped, leaving Louis standing dumbfounded. 

“Hey! Where do you think you’re going?! We had a deal!” Louis shouts after him. 

“Monte!” Harry calls back. 

Louis stays rooted to his spot, trying to wrack his brain for the meaning of that word. He doesn’t remember covering that word in his French class. 

_Where was Harry coming up with these random words?_

“Get on!”

Louis snatches the awaiting helmet and slides it on his head before taking up the spot behind Harry. It’s only the second day knowing him and yet Louis is already beginning to enjoy being pressed up against Harry’s back, feeling the wind in his face, the rev of the engine beneath him, and the beat of Harry’s heart against his. The drive to the museum takes them along La Rive Gauche and Louis smiles as he watches the water of the Seine ripple from the boats travelling along. It’s an overcast day, so the river looks a bit dull, but it still makes something stir within Louis, reminds him of home. 

“It’s beautiful!” Louis shouts over the wind and traffic. 

“What is?” 

“The river!” 

“You should see it at night!” Harry glances over his shoulder at Louis before speeding up more down the road. Louis just laughs and holds on tighter. 

Harry finds a parking spot outside the museum easily and both boys hop off the moped. Louis pauses for a moment as he stares up at the large arching windows and the sculptures sitting high and looming. 

“Wow,” he says under his breath. 

“Amazing, right?” Harry asks, sidling up beside him. “Wait until you see the inside.” 

Louis lets a wide smile tug at his lips as he follows Harry up to the museum, a bounce in his step. Harry holds the door open for Louis, and when the English boy walks inside, his eyes widen. They trace the intricate carvings along the wall, the glass ceilings that allow light to trickle in and create an open atmosphere, and the large gold clock hanging high above his head. Louis is startled out of his gaping by a nudge to his shoulder. He looks over to see a smirking Harry beside him. 

“Do you have a carte d'étudiant? It’s free entrance for students.” 

“Oh. Yeah.” 

Louis pulls his wallet out of his pocket and his student ID out of his wallet, sliding it across the counter to the receptionist. Harry does the same and the lady smiles warmly at them both before handing over both their IDs and their tickets. Louis is barely able to get a ‘thank you’ past his lips before Harry is grabbing his wrist and pulling him through the museum. Louis tries to keep up with Harry’s long legs but he can’t help but stumble as he tries to glance into the different galleries they pass. 

“Wait, where are we going?” Louis asks as both boys step onto an escalator. 

“You’ll see,” Harry replies, a smirk toying at the corner of his lips. 

_Smug little shit._

The boys take the escalators all the way up to the fifth floor where Harry begins walking down the corridor. Louis is quick to follow, sneaking a glance at the different paintings on the walls as they make their way through different galleries. Harry stops in the middle of one of the galleries, and Louis almost slips on the smooth floor, trying not run into him. He glances around the room of the gallery they’re standing in, expecting to see something special that the curly haired lad wanted to show him. 

_Honestly, why was I expecting anything less than a bunch of paintings hanging on a blue wall?_

Harry’s taken a seat on one of the benches in the centre of the room and Louis takes the seat beside him. Harry doesn’t say anything for a few minutes, and Louis is unsure of what to do. 

_Are you allowed to talk in museums?_

He glances at the painting straight ahead then turns back to Harry. 

“So…” Louis whispers. 

“This is my favourite painting here.” 

Louis looks at the painting again. “It’s nice.” 

“I love all of Sisley’s works.” 

“Well this one is… nice… and blue.” 

Harry bites his lip hard but his body still shakes with the laughter he’s trying to hold in. Louis ducks his head to hide his own smile. 

“He’s sort of an in between artist, you know? He was studying at l’École des Beaux-Arts right as l’impressionnisme was beginning. So his works have the beautiful landscapes and the mélange de couleur of the impressionists but the definition of shapes. So instead of there just being a splash of colours like Monet, you can tell there is in fact a person in the painting. And Sisley’s choice of colour palettes, I just—you said yourself that it’s blue, and all his paintings are like that: colour tones that complement one another.” 

It’s fascinating to watch Harry talk about art in such a way. The way his eyes light up and a smile pulls around the words that roll off his tongue. Louis can feel the passion emanating straight out of Harry’s chest. He almost wants to carve into there to see it up close and personal. He wants to sit here all day and listen to Harry talk about every single artist, every single painting, every little detail. Louis’ never liked art, but listening to the words spilling from Harry’s mouth, he thinks he could. 

_Really? Second day together and already wanting to change likes and dislikes? Really need to pull myself together._

Louis ducks his head down again to hide the blush clawing up his cheeks at the thoughts while Harry continues to talk about other paintings by Sisley. 

“Plus, he’s English, you know.” 

“What?” 

“Sisley. He was an Englishman.” 

“Well, we do do everything better in Britain.” 

Harry lets out another of his loud laughs and is quick to slap a hand over his mouth as some of the other visitors in the gallery turn to glare at him. 

“Don’t laugh. It’s true,” Louis chides, standing up from the bench. “Now, come on, French boy. Show me some more fancy schmancy art.” 

Louis walks over to one of the paintings hanging on the opposite wall, tilting his head and squinting his eyes to appear knowledgeable. 

“This is a nice painting,” he says when he feels what he assumes is Harry’s presence behind him. “Lots of green with that touch of pink and blue. A lovely faded picture of a garden.” 

“It’s not faded; that’s the style of painting,” Harry comments, laughter underlying his tone.

“I know. I meant faded as in gives the illusion of faded.” Louis waves a hand dismissively over his shoulder then leans forward to read the information card. “Ree-noir. Talented lad.” 

“Renoir.” 

“Good job. You passed the test.” 

When Louis turns back around, Harry has a smile tucked across his face and that sparkle is back in his eyes. 

_Or maybe it’s just the lighting in here._

The rest of the visit goes much the same way: Louis making comments on the various pieces and trying to sound smart, and Harry gently correcting him while trying not to disturb the other visitors. The two boys have almost finished—having made their way down to the second level and already on the second half of galleries there—when Louis finds his favourite piece of art of the day. 

“Oh, look at this guy! He is working that look.” 

“Louis!” Harry chastises but the sincerity is lost in the obvious laugh he is trying to swallow. 

“Meu-ni-er,” Louis reads off the plaque. “Sounds like manure if you ask me.” 

“Oh my god,” Harry mumbles from behind his hands. 

“Oh! Take a picture of this as your picture for bringing me here.” Louis moves to stand beside the statue, popping his hip and turning his head to look solemnly into the distance just like the man of the statue. 

“It’s forbidden to take photos in here.” 

“Party pooper.” 

“Come on. Only two more floors to go.” 

By the time Louis and Harry have made it through all the exhibits, the sun is beginning to sink in the sky. They both grab sandwiches and waters from the café outside then sit by the Seine to eat them. The golden sky looks lovely above the trees in the park across the river, a swirl of warm colours, greens, and blues all dancing together in perfect tandem. 

_Very picturesqueI_ , Louis thinks as he takes another bite of his sandwich. 

“And now I get my picture,” Harry murmurs. 

“I’m eating, you twat!” Louis tries to shield his face with his hands and sandwich, but the flash of the camera still goes off. 

“Oh that’s gorgeous,” Harry comments, examining the picture. “You can even see a bit of food hanging out of your mouth.” 

“Bastard,” Louis mutters, elbowing Harry hard in the ribs. 

Harry doesn’t seem too bothered though. He merely chuckles deep in his throat that sends a shiver down Louis’ spine. 

_It wasn’t that rumble of a laugh; it was the fact it’s starting to get cold out._

Louis offers Harry a smile, and when Harry smiles back with those dimples and warm eyes, Louis can feel goose pimples prickling his skin. 

_A breeze hit! It’s just a breeze! It’s the Seine’s fault!_

He’s quick to distract himself by shoving another bite of his sandwich in his mouth before he says or does something stupid. 

“Tes yeux brillent comme le ciel,” Harry says, placing his now empty sandwich container down beside him. 

“What?” Louis asks around his mouthful of food. 

“Nothing. Nothing,” Harry says, shaking his head and looking down at his lap. He almost looks bashful. _Weird._

“No, wait.” Louis digs around in his pocket before producing his phone. He holds it out towards Harry. “Say it again.” 

“That’s cheating! Aren’t you meant to be a French student? Is that not why you’re here?” 

“ _Technically_ , I’m here on an immersion program, to be immersed in the French culture and language!” Louis adds a dramatic tone and hand gestures for effect. 

“Oh is that so?” 

“Yes! So immerse me!” 

“In the Seine? Gladly.” 

“Oi!” Louis chastises. “Cheeky.” 

Louis will never admit how after he needs to bite the inside of his cheek so the fond feeling that’s bursting inside his chest and threatening to crack his ribs from within isn’t evident on his face. He will never admit how he pretends to duck his head in laughter when it’s actually to hide his failure. He will never admit how he’s about ninety percent sure that there’s a smile on his face and a softness in his eyes that’s blatant from space. He won’t even admit it later that evening when he’s back at his host family’s house and talking on the phone with Liam. Even when she questions him on his new friend, he keeps it locked up tight: 

“He’s just a sound lad. We got on from the word ‘go’. He’s great.” 

“Yeah, sure, Louis.”

\---

The next day, Harry picks Louis up again and they head to La Musée de la Musique—“Another museum? Seriously?” “You’ll like this one; I promise.”—before driving to the Sacre-Coeur Basilica. The view from there is even more amazing than the Arc de Triomphe. Louis can see every building in all of Paris, it seems, stretched all the way out to the horizon. Louis then steals Harry’s camera to take lots of unnecessary photos and selfies. Harry chases after him and tries to act mad about it, but his laughter and dimples that are still ever present give him away.

“Si je t'attrape, puis-je te tenir?” Harry says when he finally snatches his camera back. 

Louis tries to remember to look up what that means later.

\---

On Tuesday, the boys head to the Île de la Cité to see the Notre Dame Cathedral where Louis spends most of the time staring in awe at the massive structure from both inside and out.

“Cela ne pourrait jamais comparer à ton sourire,” Harry whispers as they stand under the glow of the massive stained glass window. 

They end the visit by climbing to the top where Louis gets a photo imitating a gargoyle. Although, Harry struggles a bit to take the picture as his laughter at Louis’ facial imitation keeps resulting in the camera shaking. Louis pockets the sight and sound in the ever growing compartment of his brain. 

After, Louis and Harry stop at Memorial des Martyrs de la Deportation. It’s eerie, in Louis’ opinion, running his hand along the thousands of names engraved in the wall, and when they leave, they go without a photo out of respect.

\---

On Wednesday, Harry takes Louis to the Panthéon. The inside is amazing and Louis recognises some of the names of the people interred there. Only some though. His mark in history is almost as bad as in French. He takes a photo beside Voltaire’s tomb anyways.

Afterwards, they ride down the road to the Jardin du Luxembourg. They rent bikes there to ride around the massive property. All the flowers and trees are in full bloom in the warm, sunny weather and it’s a beautiful sight, a splash of colour backed by a sparkling, blue sky. It’s a perfect day and Louis can’t help but throw his head back in laughter as he races Harry down the path. They stop at a bench slightly out of breath from their race and split a baguette and some fruit. 

“Je veux que ton rire me chante une berceuse,” Harry says, raising his camera to take his photo of Louis under the high sun. Louis smiles at the way the rays bounce off Harry’s curls and form some sort of halo that casts shadows across his cheeks every time he blinks. He almost wants to reach out to touch. _Almost_. He yanks his brain towards a different train of thought instead. 

“You know, one of these days I’m going to get you to explain what all these phrases you keep saying mean.” 

“One of these days you will have learnt French well enough to already know.”

\---

When Thursday rolls around, Louis and Harry walk through the Parc de la Tour de Saint-Jacques and visit the tower. They try to race up the three-hundred steps but grow tired less than a third of the way up. They end up dragging themselves up the last fifty steps and when Harry snaps a picture of Louis at the top, Louis is sure he looks dead in it. Once the boys have hauled themselves back down the stairs, they drive over to the Père-Lachaise cemetery and challenge one another to see who can find the most famous grave. Louis is sure he’s won when he stumbles across Oscar Wilde’s grave, but Harry declares victory with a proud smile for finding Jim Morrison’s.

\---

Friday, Louis finds Harry slightly annoyed when he scurries down the steps. _So I slept through my alarm! So screw me!_ As punishment, Harry convinces Louis to go see the catacombs. They have to queue for a long while, but Louis would rather do that all day. It’s creepy right from the start of the tour, going down the spiral stone stairs, and it only gets worse with all the skulls. Louis stays close to Harry’s side for comfort, but it does little for his nerves. Instead, Louis is left trying to still the twitch in his fingers crying out to take Harry’s hand in his.

_Just friends. Calm down. Just a nice lad showing me around._

Once they’ve returned to the sunlight—Harry with a picture of a terrified looking Louis next to a wall of skulls tucked away in his camera—, they head to a café for a late lunch. 

“Je veux remplir l'espace entre tes doigts avec les miens,” Harry says as he stirs his tea. 

Louis wracks his brain for the meaning of that phrase, now determined to figure out these French things Harry keeps saying every day. _Je veux definitely means I want… doigt… wasn’t that hand? Or fingers? Some sort of body part…_

“Is your tea alright?” 

Louis startles out of his concentration, and when he glances at Harry, he swears he can detect a light dusting of pink across the French boy’s cheeks. 

“It’s alright, but obviously tea is better in England.” 

Harry rolls his eyes with a smile. “Sure.”

“Rule Britannia.”

\---

Saturday morning, Harry and Louis set out early to drive out west to Versailles. They take the tour of the lavish palace and then spend the rest of the late afternoon in the gardens where Louis runs around shouting, “Let them eat cake!” much to Harry’s horror and glee. Louis puts on his best regal face for a photo in front of the golden gates before both boys hop back onto Harry’s moped.

“I’m way better than Marie Antoinette if you ask me,” Louis says, sliding the helmet over his head with one hand and licking the icing staining his fingers from the cake he demanded to be bought in memory of the famous queen on his other hand. 

“Je veux goûter tes lèvres,” Harry replies. He offers Louis a shy smile before turning back around and starting the engine. 

Louis presses his smile in Harry’s shoulder blades as they drive back into Paris, and if he holds a bit tighter around Harry’s waist or knocks ankles with him under the table when they stop for dinner, no one ever has to know.

\---

When Louis gets back to his host family’s house that night, Madame Roux is waiting for him. She’s sitting in the lounge with a book and greets him with a warm smile. Louis is confused by her presence but he smiles nonetheless.

“Oh. Bonjour?” 

“Bonsoir. I just wanted to let you know to pack your bags tonight before you went to sleep.”

“Sorry? Pack my bags?” 

“All the host families are travelling to Nice together. A holiday for you and your fellow students.” 

“Um alright. I’ll just…” Louis gestures in the vague vicinity of the stairs before escaping to the safety of his room. He bypasses his suitcase though and flops down on the bed, digging his phone out of his pocket. He dials Harry’s number right away— _So I have it memorised. So what?_ —and nibbles on his lip while it rings. He apologises multiple times to Harry about needing to cancel their plans for the next couple of days and explains the situation. Harry is more than understanding. He says that Nice is gorgeous and that Louis will love it. Louis thinks he can hear a sadness dragging down Harry’s words, diluting what he’s saying. Almost as if he doesn’t want Louis to go as much as Louis doesn’t want to go. Almost as if he wants Louis to stop biting his tongue. Almost as if he wants Louis to say the words of ‘I’d love it more if a certain French boy was by my side’ that he’s holding back. Almost as if the feelings threatening to change from a swirl to a tornado in Louis’ chest are mutual. 

_It’s probably just the distortion of the phone line._

\---

Nice is gorgeous just like Harry said. It’s all beaches and crystal blue water and palm trees. Liam is ecstatic to be here because he can surf.

“I think I might send some pictures to Sophia later. It’s going to be great when I go back. I bet she won’t be able to keep her hands off me.” 

Louis tries to listen and smile along but he’s finding it more difficult than usual. Every time he sees the green of the palm trees, he thinks of green eyes. Every time a random guy with curls walks past, he hopes it’ll be a certain head of soft curly hair. Every time he hears some other beachgoer laugh, he wishes it was a different sweet sound ringing in his ears. 

“I’m going to take a nap,” Louis says, laying back on his towel. 

“Take off your shirt first so you’ll tan,” Liam suggests. “Then maybe a certain French boy will take a bit more interest in you if you’re picking up what I’m putting down.” 

“We’re just friends,” Louis grumbles, taking off his shirt anyways. 

_Only to use as a pillow, jeez._

“Yeah, but we both know you want more than that.” 

“Shut up! I said I was napping!” 

“Touchy,” Liam comments. That phrase is used by Liam a lot for the rest of the day and the next, along with ‘moody’ and ‘someone’s on their man period’. Despite Louis’ protests that he’s not sulking, Liam gets annoyed with him and spends most of the visit in Nice with Niall, his host family’s son. 

Louis starts to think that Liam might have a point— _might_ —when Wednesday rolls around. It’s the last full day in Nice before all the host families drive back to Paris and so all the students are going to High Club together. Most of his peers are bouncing with excitement for a night out, and normally, Louis would be right there beside them, but tonight, he struggles to find the effort to even get ready. When his hair is somewhat near what he wants, Louis heads down to the lobby of the hotel they’re staying at and follows the other students. He can feel the concerned looks he gets every so often as he walks with his hands in his pockets and ignores the various conversations going on around him, but all he cares about at this moment is one thing: alcohol. 

After a number of shots and pints, Louis can feel that welcome buzz sparking through his blood. It thrums through him to the beat of the bass that pulses around him and his head feels light and numb. _Thankfully numb_. He feels a bit more like his old self, and it’s not long before he’s in the middle of the dance floor dancing and screaming along to the lyrics of the song playing. Two large hands then settle on Louis’ hips and a firm chest presses against his back. Louis keeps moving his hips and it isn’t long before the stranger finds the same rhythm. 

“T’es canon,” the stranger breathes hotly into Louis’ ear before nipping at the lobe. 

Louis bites his lip and spins around in the stranger’s arms. He’s met with eyes that are very brown and hair that is very blond. Louis’ blood freezes in his body. 

_What’s wrong with you?! You’re about to pull!_

Everything’s wrong. It’s all wrong. Everything hurts, and he’s going to be sick. He can feel the bile rising in his throat, his skin itching to get away. Everything inside him seems to be screaming it’s not right. The stranger leans down like he’s going for a kiss, but Louis is quick to push him away. He shoulders past the stranger and stumbles through the mass of swaying bodies. He’s suffocating and despite his best efforts, his lungs seem to refuse to take oxygen in. As if the screaming in his head wasn’t enough of an onslaught. 

Finally, Louis makes it through the doors of the club and into the night. He stumbles down the street for a bit to get away from the crowd before taking a seat on the curb. He lets his head drop down between his knees and takes in deep breathes of the cool sea breeze, the sober realisation creeping in. 

_I am so screwed._

\---

The next morning, all the families pack up and pile back into their respective cars to head back to Paris. Louis spends the whole trip with his head resting against the window. His host family seems to chuck up his withdrawn behaviour to a bad hangover, and he lets them think that. In all honesty, he can’t stop replaying the events of last night in his head. It’s like watching the worst scene of a horror movie on loop. Each time makes him sicker to his stomach and his head pound even more.

 _Or maybe that_ is _the hangover_. 

He just can’t seem to wrap his head around it. Normally, Louis would let go and dance the night away if the guy propositioning him was attractive enough. He’d let the guy buy him a drink, have a cheeky snog, and maybe, if the guy is lucky, a blowjob in the toilets. But last night… Louis groans internally. _Last night._

There’s only one real reason for Louis’ actions last night and he knows it. It’s there in the back of his mind whispering and gnawing, and he knows he’s eventually going to have to acknowledge it. 

_I’d rather ignore it_. 

The realisation doesn’t seem to like that and starts conspiring with his heart, making it give a pulse of constriction in his chest, which then conspires with his stomach, and Louis might just be sick again. Louis presses his forehead against the cool glass of the window and tries to use the passing countryside as a distraction. 

_How many more hours left?_

\---

When Louis and his host family arrive back at their house come early evening, having stopped halfway for a group food break, Harry is waiting outside, leaning against his moped.

 _Of course he looks perfect standing all casual and shit._

Louis’ really not sure why he’s here, but he doesn’t care because Harry is there, right there. Louis can feel his heart pick up pace in his chest at those familiar green eyes, can feel butterflies erupt in his stomach at that dimpled smile. Part of Louis wants to run out of the car and jump straight into Harry’s arms, to run his fingers through that halo of curls and to never let go. 

_Play it cool. Have to play it cool._

Louis thanks and says goodbye to Monsieur and Madame Roux before stepping out of the car and walking over to Harry. 

“What’re you—” Louis begins to say.

“Allons-y,” Harry cuts off, shoving the helmet at Louis. 

Louis takes his cue and slips the helmet over his head before taking the seat behind Harry. Harry starts the engine, and they take off down the road. Louis is sure to hold on extra tight around Harry’s waist, taking the closest to a hug that he can. He’s not sure where they’re going, but he doesn’t care. He’s too focused on memorising the feel of Harry’s back muscles against his chest, the smell of Harry’s cologne, and the tickle of curls that poke out of Harry’s helmet against his cheek. 

It’s not long before Harry is parking his moped and both boys step off. Louis looks around and realises that they’re along the Seine. 

“So…”

“I told you that you had to see the Seine at night, so we’re going on a night cruise.” 

“A night cruise?”

“Yeah, but it’s bring your own wine and cheese.” 

“Wine and cheese? Well it doesn’t get any more cliché French than that.” 

Harry smiles wide at the comment and Louis wants to reach out and touch, wants to dig a finger into those dimples. _Want to kiss those dimples. God I’ve missed them so much._ Louis clears his throat, realising he’s staring. 

“So let’s get this wine and cheese, shall we?” 

“I uh already got it,” Harry says, producing a bag from the compartment of his moped. 

“Well someone’s prepared,” Louis teases. 

“Yeah…” Louis thinks Harry is blushing but it’s too dark to tell. “Now come on! On the boat we go!” 

Harry grabs onto Louis’ elbow and drags him to the loading dock where he hands over their tickets. They both walk aboard and take their seats. Harry opens the wine and the boys pass it between each other as they wait for the boat to finish filling up. It ends up being quite crowded, and not long after the boat takes off, Harry and Louis make their way out onto deck to find a quieter spot. They end up near the back of the boat, leaning against the railing. 

The Seine really is amazing at night. It’s a clear night and despite not being able to see stars due to the city lights, the moon still shines big and bright. It, along with the golden lights of the city, reflect in the water of the river, rippling and shimmering with each wave created by the boat. Paris in and of itself is gorgeous at night all lit up. And still, Louis keeps finding himself glancing to his left, at the beautiful boy beside him. Louis takes a drink of wine for courage before turning to face Harry. 

“So…” Louis begins, looking down at the wine bottle in his hand and running his finger along the lip. “Would it be weird if I said I missed you?” 

Louis snaps his head up when a flash blinds his eyes. 

“No,” Harry says, lowering his camera. “As long as it wasn’t weird if I said I missed you too.”

“Nope, not weird.” 

Louis smiles wide and turns back to face the river and Paris. He takes a step closer to Harry, though, so that they’re sides press against each other. His stomach goes all jittery at the simple touch and Louis attempts to get his heart to return to a normal beat. He tries to revel in the silence that’s blanketed them, in just the presence of Harry beside him. 

“You were right, you know. The Seine is better at night. It’s absolutely beautiful.” 

“Comme toi,” Harry mutters from where his head is resting against his crossed arms. 

_Wait what? Comme… like… toi… you…_

“What?” Louis asks, his voice sounding higher to his own ears. 

“Nothing. Nothing.” 

“I know what that one means… Have you been—”

“I didn’t mean—”

“All the other—”

“I’m sorry! I—”

Louis cuts him off by pressing his lips hard against Harry’s. 

_Blame the leap of faith on the alcohol later?_

Harry freezes against him, but it only makes Louis more determined, gripping the French boy’s hips and holding him there. It’s only a moment before Harry is relaxing and kissing him back. It’s everything Louis could’ve wished for. Harry’s lips are soft and plump against his own. He can taste the wine on them and something that is so distinctly Harry; it’s tantalising. He wraps his arms around Harry’s neck and pulls him closer, finally getting to thread his fingers through the hair that’s as soft as he imagined. He can feel Harry’s heart beating fast in his chest, and he’s sure that his is going at a similar pace. He’s too distracted to notice or care. Harry’s hands are warm and secure on his waist, and Louis never wants this moment to end. But then Harry’s starts laughing against his lips. Louis tries to ignore it but ends up pulling away and raising an eyebrow. 

“What’re you laughing about?” 

“I just realised we forgot about the cheese.” 

“Stupid French boy,” Louis says, his tone playful, before he pulls Harry down into another kiss. 

The kisses turn heated not long after that with Louis pressed back against the railing of the boat and the bottle of wine long forgotten on the deck floor. Louis can’t get enough of the press of Harry’s lips against his own or the languid movements of Harry’s tongue in his mouth. He’s on cloud nine. When they pull away for air, Louis is sure to keep Harry there, to keep his body pressed against his own. 

“After this, the next place you should show me is your flat,” Louis whispers. 

“Maybe,” Harry replies, leaning in to press a kiss behind Louis’ ear that makes a tingle go down his spine. “Do I still get my picture then?” 

“Cheeky,” Louis retorts but his voice comes out breathless as Harry bites down against the skin. 

When the boat finally docks again, both boys scurry off and jump back on the moped. The drive seems tenser than usually but Louis doesn’t mind. He’s too preoccupied with sliding his hand up under Harry’s shirt and petting at the skin of his stomach. He’s just happy he can, is allowed to touch now. He loves the way the muscles of Harry’s stomach jump underneath his fingers and the way Harry drives even faster down the dark road.

\---

Harry’s flat is small, but cosy. _Very cosy_. Louis likes it. His eyes trail from the small kitchen tucked in the corner to the ratty and obvious hand-me-down sofa to the desk set up by the windows. Along the wall by the desk, Louis can see an array of photographs plastered there. All and all it’s very Harry, and Louis wants to explore every inch of the flat. He wants to delve deeper into every crevice of Harry’s being, find out even more about every little piece of this beautiful boy. What kind of food does Harry have in his fridge? What kind of books are on Harry’s desk? What sort of shampoo is in Harry’s bathroom?

Louis is about to take a step towards the desk to examine the photos over there, figuring it’s a good place to start, when two hands grab his hips and soft lips begin kissing at his neck. Louis lets a happy sigh fall from his tongue as he leans back into Harry’s chest. He lifts a hand back to thread through Harry’s curls as the French boy continues to kiss along his neck and jaw. 

_Yeah, I’ve definitely become the type of guy to obsess over curls now_. 

Louis turns around in Harry’s hold and presses their lips together once again. Louis doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of kissing Harry. It’s sort of perfect really, and it just makes Louis dizzy if he’s honest. As Louis presses closer and deepens the kiss more, he feels two hands slide down his lower back to his bum. They give a quick squeeze, leaving Louis muffling a moan into Harry’s mouth, before sliding down to grip Louis’ thighs. Before Louis can even think, he’s being lifted into the air. He is quick to squeeze his legs around Harry’s waist, and without breaking the kiss, Harry carries Louis off around the corner and to his bedroom. Louis doesn’t have much time to examine the room before he’s being dropped onto the mattress and Harry is hovering over him. Louis reaches up and pulls Harry down into another passionate kiss as the taller boy presses him further into the folds of the duvet. Louis allows his hands to wander, to roam under Harry’s shirt and over the back muscles that ripple under his touch. Harry’s kisses have moved to Louis’ neck, and he seems to be putting extra care into a love bite that he’s sucking into the smaller boy’s pulse point. It makes a moan rip past Louis’ lips and he digs his nails into Harry’s skin in reflex. Harry sits up suddenly, and Louis is about to voice his annoyance when Harry pulls his shirt off, tossing it aside. 

_Yep, nope, can’t be annoyed at that._ Damn. _How is this boy real?!_

Louis runs his hands down Harry’s chest, revelling in the way the taller boy shivers, as Harry reaches down for the hem of Louis’ shirt. Louis sits up enough for Harry to pull his shirt off, but he can’t help feeling inadequate compared to Harry’s perfectly cut body. Harry seems to have other thoughts, though, as his lips latch onto Louis’ collarbones, kissing down his chest and stomach. He pays extra attention to Louis’ stomach, and it has the blue eyed boy squirming as Harry sucks another love bite into his hip bone. 

“Harry,” Louis sighs, voice breathless. “Get on with it.” 

Harry slides back up Louis’ body and presses their noses together. “But we have all the time in the world. No need to rush.” 

Harry’s voice is deeper than usual and the green of his eyes are almost swallowed whole by his pupils, and Louis has to remind himself to breathe. He licks his lips and ignores the tingle at the bottom of his spine, tilting his head to connect his lips with Harry’s in a quick kiss. 

“But I’ve waited long enough,” Louis argues, sitting up again and reaching forward to unbutton Harry’s jeans. 

There’s a smirk toying at the corners of Harry’s lips and then they’re crashing against Louis’. Harry shimmies out of his own jeans— _which is probably a feat I will never understand_ —before sliding Louis’ own down his legs. They continue kissing, tongues and teeth colliding, and Louis bucks his hips up, skin alighting at the contact. 

“Still too many clothes, Haz,” Louis breathes into Harry’s mouth, grinding up against the taller boy’s clothed cock. 

“Have to be patient Lou,” Harry replies, sliding a hand between their two bodies and pressing the palm of his hand against Louis’ length. Louis can’t help the moan that pulls past his lips as he arches up into the touch. That seems to make a wide smirk slide across Harry’s lips, and Louis is unimpressed. He grabs Harry’s wrist and uses the hold his thighs have around Harry’s waist to flip them over on the bed. With Harry pinned under him, Louis begins moving his hips in small circles, grinding his ass against Harry’s cock and making the taller boy throw his head back in pleasure. Louis revels in the breathless moans of his name that fall past Harry’s lips, and he feels a smirk of his own grace his face. 

Louis continues the movement for a few moments, but then Harry is gripping his hips and flipping them back over. Before Louis can even blink, his boxers are being pulled from his frame and Harry’s hand has a firm grip on his cock, stroking slowly. Harry’s hands are even more amazing than he could’ve ever thought, and he lets his eyes flutter shut, moans falling from his lips of their own accord. 

“Harry. Haz. Harry. _Please._ ”

Harry gives in easily enough, and he releases Louis’ cock, pulling away. Louis almost whimpers at the loss— _almost_. He opens his eyes back up and sees Harry rummaging through his bedside drawer. He rakes his eyes over Harry’s back, biting his lip and raising an eye brow when they land on Harry’s pert boxer-missing bum. 

_Wait when did that happen?_

Before Louis can even begin to question it, Harry is turning back around, condom and lube tucked into his big hand. He crawls back over to Louis, dropping the objects by the blue eyed boy’s head. He doesn’t say anything for a few moments, just staring at Louis. It’s akin to that first day that Louis met Harry, and just like then, Louis squirms and feels a blush creeping up his cheeks at the scrutiny. 

“What?” 

“You’re beautiful.” 

The response makes Louis blush even more, heat clinging high on his cheeks and the tips of his ears. Harry doesn’t seem to mind or even notice though, as he presses his lips to Louis’ once more. Louis wastes no time in kissing back, feeling like he’s getting drunk off the taste of Harry’s lips. He’s so caught up in the taste and feel of Harry’s mouth that he barely registers the click of a bottle opening. That is until there’s a cool finger pressing against his hole. He breathes a moan into Harry’s mouth as the finger pushes past the muscle. The curly haired boy works his finger carefully and slowly inside Louis while he kisses along the smaller boy’s jaw. Louis can’t help feeling overwhelmed at the pleasure onslaught to his body, and he can do nothing but grip onto Harry’s shoulders for dear life, as a second and then a third finger is added. Louis is writhing under Harry as the taller boy curls and twists his fingers. Desperate moans slip from his mouth, and it seems like Harry isn’t feigning much better. He’s sighing out breathy moans against Louis’ neck and jaw and collarbones as he leaves messy kisses all along Louis’ skin. 

“Babe,” Louis chokes out, “as much as I love your fingers, think you could get on with it already?” 

Louis can feel Harry’s low rumble of a chuckle as much as he hears it. “Sound so hot when you’re desperate.” 

“Harry for fuck’s sake—”

Before Louis can get another word out, Harry is pulling his fingers out and swallowing Louis’ protests in a kiss. They trade sloppy kisses for a few moments and then Harry is pulling back and grabbing the condom. He tears the wrapper with his teeth and slips it on, and Louis decides to offer a helping hand and slick up his cock, smirking at the delicious moans Harry breathes from the slide of his hand. The smirk falls from his face, though when Harry grabs both his wrists and pins them to the bed. He presses his weight onto Louis and slides his cock between his cheeks, and Louis can’t take it anymore, can’t help but push back. 

_Fuck pride! I wanna be fucked now already!_

Harry smirks but he gives into Louis’ silent plea, releasing one of Louis’ wrists so he can slide a hand between them and guide his cock in. Louis can’t help the filthy moan that tears from his throat as the head slips in. Harry continues to push in slowly until he’s fully seated, and Louis feels hot all over. Harry is thick, and Louis feels stretched in the best way possible. 

“Move,” Louis breathes, wrapping his legs around Harry’s waist and digging his heels into the taller boy’s lower back. 

Harry doesn’t need telling twice. He starts thrusting slow and deep, but soon builds a quick and steady pace. He buries his face in Louis’ neck and moans out Louis’ name like a mantra. Louis just moves a hand to grip onto Harry’s curls, moving his hips to meet each of Harry’s thrusts and arching his body up against Harry’s chest. Their bodies move in tandem, the sound of skin slapping against skin and the smell of sweat and sex filling the room. It isn’t long before Louis starts to feel that familiar heat building in his gut and he reaches a hand between their bodies to get a hand on himself. Harry slaps his hand away though, replacing it with his own and stroking Louis slow and steady. 

“Come on, love,” Harry breathes hotly against his ear. His voice is deep and rusty and it pushes Louis even closer to the edge. 

“Harry,” Louis says on a broken moan, his body bowing under Harry’s ministrations, clenching around Harry’s cock. 

“Fuck. Louis,” Harry groans right next to his ear, and that’s what does it for Louis: the way Harry’s voice sounds saying his name, deep and wrecked and with that French lilt still ever present. It flings him over the edge, and he arches up off the bed, coming hard over Harry’s hand and his own chest. Harry’s hand continues to move, working him through his orgasm, and in his haze, Louis vaguely registers Harry’s thrusts stilling and Harry shaking and moaning above him.

When they both come down from their respective highs, they collapse onto the sheets, sticky but sated. Louis is about to roll over and settle in for cuddles when Harry pulls himself up and out of bed. Louis has to physically restrain the whine that threatens to claw out of his throat. 

“Where are you going?” he asks instead. “Leaving me alone in bed already?” 

“I’m just going to get a flannel, you goof,” Harry explains before pressing a kiss to Louis’ forehead and leaving the bedroom, presumably going to the bathroom. 

Louis just lays there in bed, already feeling his eyes beginning to droop, limbs relaxed. It’s not long before the bed dips and there’s a warm cloth brushing across his chest and stomach. He offers Harry a lazy smile as the taller boy climbs back into bed, and Harry returns it, getting comfortable before pulling Louis closer. Louis goes without protest, draping an arm over Harry’s waist and tangling their feet together. He gives in to the pull of sleep and lets his eyes fall closed as Harry pulls the duvet up and over their entwined bodies. 

“Night, Haz,” Louis whispers. 

“Night, Lou.”

\---

Louis wakes up to rays of sunlight dancing in through thin curtains and across his face. He can feel them heating his skin in lines and one ray is of course falling just over his eyelids. He has no idea what time it is, but Louis’ a strong believer in it always being too early. He groans and rolls over, fully prepared to hide under the duvet and steal a few more hours of sleep, but all he wins is a mouth full of hair. Louis splutters and peels open his eyes, and when he takes in the head of familiar curls lying beside him, everything from last night comes rushing back to the forefront of his mind. It’s like the dam that was Louis’ foggy sleep raddled mind has burst, and all those vivid images of him and Harry pressed against each other last night are right there.

Louis sits up and rubs the remainder of sleep out of his eyes. He looks down at Harry who’s laying on his stomach with his head turned away from Louis and still fast asleep. 

_He really is so pretty_. 

Louis leans over and brushes a few stray curls off of Harry’s forehead before wrapping his arms around Harry’s waist. He presses his chest against the French boy’s back and presses a soft kiss between his shoulder blades. 

“Wakey wakey,” Louis whispers against his skin. 

Harry groans and shifts beneath him before rumbling out, “Bon matin.” 

Louis continues to press kisses along the expanse of Harry’s back, trying to hide the fact that the combination of Harry’s morning voice and him speaking French was sending his brain into overdrive. 

“So what’re we doing today?” Harry asks around a yawn. 

“Hmm?” 

“Last time I checked, there was still sights to be seen.”

“Let’s stay in today,” Louis suggests, nuzzling into the small of Harry’s back. “You’re so soft.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment?” Harry asks, a chuckle underlying his tone. 

“It is.” Louis pulls back to smile at him. Harry looks so cute with his face squished against the pillow. 

“T’es très mignon.” Harry says, rolling onto his back to face Louis properly. 

“What does that mean?” Louis asks, leaning back in to hover over Harry’s face. He knows he probably has morning breath, but he doesn’t care because Harry looks like an angel with his curls splayed out like that across the pillow. “No more secret French phrases.”

“You are very cute.” 

Harry’s eyes are so bright and so green, sleepiness still clinging just around the edges, and his face looks so soft and his lips so delicious, and Louis can’t help himself anymore. He leans down and presses his lips to Harry’s. It tastes pretty stale since both of them have just woken up but Louis doesn’t care, and he’s pretty sure Harry doesn’t other when the French boy’s arm comes up to wrap securely around Louis’ waist. 

The boys spend most of the early morning kissing until Harry slips out of bed with a promise of breakfast. Louis lies there in bed for a few moments. He stares up at the ceiling and just takes in the peacefulness of it all. He’s in a pretty boy’s bed, and that pretty boy is making him breakfast, and that pretty boy is also funny and smart and… _perfect_. Louis rolls over to hide his wide smile in the pillow before getting up. He wraps the sheet around his body and ventures out into the main part of Harry’s flat. Louis can see Harry puttering about in the kitchen. He’s wearing only a pair of boxers and appears to be humming to himself as he stands in front of the stove. It’s quite a nice sight if you ask Louis. It almost makes him want to walk up behind Harry and hug him around the waist and maybe kiss him some more. But Louis has other plans at the moment. He turns and tiptoes his way over to Harry’s desk then stares at the wall of photos in awe. They’re so many, obviously all taken by Harry. Some are of landscapes and landmarks around Paris, but most are of people. They all seem pretty candid, people laughing, talking, just walking down the street. Louis spots the photos of himself, including the one of him looking a total mess from Saint-Jacques Tower. 

_I wonder if Harry will notice if I just take that one and burn it._

Louis is about to reach out and take it when strong arms wrap around his waist. 

“What’re you doing? I was going to make you breakfast in bed.” 

“Sorry, love; got distracted.” 

Harry hums in response, nosing at the junction between Louis’ neck and shoulder. 

“You know, a lot of these photos are kind of stalkerish.” 

“They’re _candids_. I like taking candid photos.” Louis can actually feel Harry pouting against his skin. 

“Whatever you say, babe.” 

“But you can really see the person in candids! It’s not some put on smile or pose. It’s something real. It’s that exact emotion in that exact moment caught and forever saved on camera. You can see everything: the happiness, the love, the confusion, the sadness; it’s all right there.” 

“I think I actually get it.” 

“This one’s my favourite,” Harry says, reaching forward to run his fingers along the edge of one of the photos. 

Louis’ eyes follow Harry’s hand, and he realises that it’s actually a photo of himself. It’s from last night— _when did Harry even have time to print that off?_ —if the shirt Louis’ wearing in it is anything to go by. It must be from the boat ride. It’s dark all around Louis, and he’s looking down. Then it hits him when Harry took it, when he was fiddling with the wine bottle out of nerves. He supposes it is a nice photo. A memory of right before they kissed. 

“It’s an alright photo,” Louis comments. 

“But of course it doesn’t compare to the one of you with food in your mouth at Musée d’Orsay,” Harry teases. 

“What?!” Louis screeches, his eyes scanning the wall of photos to find the accursed photo. 

Harry just laughs behind him, and Louis tries to scowl, but that sound has always made him smile. Then, Harry is tugging on his arm and pulling him towards the kitchen. 

“Come on; breakfast is ready.” 

After a delicious breakfast that Louis devours— _seriously? He can cook too? Who knew perfect French boys existed?_ —the two boys return to Harry’s bed where they spend the rest of the day watching films on Harry’s laptop. It takes a lot of kisses to convince Harry to turn on English subtitles, but all in all it’s a perfect day. Louis definitely likes cuddling with Harry. They seem to slot together with Harry’s arm wrapped around Louis’ shoulder and Louis’ head resting in the crook of Harry’s neck. And Harry’s warm and his hair is soft where Louis runs his fingers through it, and every time Harry laughs at a particular part of the films, Louis can feel it rumble all the way down to his soul. Louis never wants to leave this spot. 

Ultimately, though, Harry drags Louis out of bed the next day despite his groggy pleas to continue cuddling. Of course, when a promise of a blowjob in the shower is thrown his way, Louis really can’t be blamed for jumping out of bed. 

Once showered and dressed, Louis in some borrowed clothes from Harry’s wardrobe, the two boys make it back outside and to Harry’s moped. 

“Alright, so today,” Harry says, handing Louis his helmet. “I thought we could do the La Louvre.”

“What is it with you and art? We already did one museum!” Louis argues. 

“Come on, Lou! It’s gorgeous!”

Louis is still unimpressed and he holds his ground on the curb, refusing to give into Harry’s pleading eyes. _Curse his adorable-ness!_

“What if I promise lots of kisses?” Harry offers. 

“Now you’re speaking my language.” 

Harry and Louis spend the whole day at the Louvre, walking hand and hand amongst all the different works of art. Whenever they stop to look at particular piece, Harry wraps his arms around Louis’ waist and rests his chin on Louis’ shoulder. Sometimes, he whispers facts that he knows about the artist or piece in Louis’ ear, and Louis just smiles and lean back against him. When they finish the tour of the museum, Harry takes the cliché photo of Louis holding the point, and as Louis watches Harry’s curls blow in the light breeze and his dimples carved deep in his cheek behind his camera, his heart clenches painfully in his chest. 

_I am so so gone._

\---

“I think we should have today off!” Louis declares Sunday morning as he steps out of the house to an awaiting Harry. Louis had made Harry take him home last night, as he was sure his host family wouldn’t take not coming home for another night kindly, but that didn’t stop their daily adventures.

“Off…?” 

“Yes! It’s Sunday so no sightseeing, just relaxing.” 

“We stayed in all day Friday.” 

“It’s _Sunday_ , Harold! In England, that means rest day!”

“Seriously?”

“Yes,” Louis says, crossing his arms and raising a challenging eyebrow at the French boy. 

“We can go to parc monceau?” Harry suggests, his voice hesitant. 

“A park? Perfect! Une minute,” Louis says, throwing in a wink before sprinting back into the house. 

He comes out a couple minutes later, shoving a football down into his rucksack. It’s a snug fit, but it’ll have to do. _Hopefully the journey isn’t too long_. Harry raises a curious eyebrow at his efforts, but Louis ignores him. He grabs the helmet that has become his, sneaking in a quick kiss, and slides into his seat behind Harry. 

“Off we go, Curly; we don’t have all day!” 

“What’s the rush? I thought we were resting today?” 

Louis jabs him hard in his pressure point. “Shut up and drive.” 

Louis can still here Harry’s laugh echoing in his ears as they speed down the motor way. He wants to hear that sound always. He thinks if he were to die to that sound, he’d die happy. 

_Whoa whoa. Getting a bit sappy there._

When they arrive at the park, after a pit-stop at a café along the way for lunch for later, Louis is a bit blown away. From the massive black and gold gate where they enter from to the pond surrounded by tall Greek-style pillars to the amass of colours: the soft green of the grass, the bright greens of the trees stretching upward and outward, the pinks, yellows, and purples of the various flowerbeds; it’s all beautiful and perfect resting peacefully under the clear blue sky. 

“If we go further down the path, it usually gets less crowded.” 

Louis nods and follows Harry down the path. He can’t help but watch all the different people in the park as they pass; those lounging and soaking up the sun’s rays, those tossing a Frisbee back and forth, the couples holding hands as they walk the opposite way down the path. Louis can’t help but smile and take a step closer to Harry, reaching down and interlacing their fingers because they can be one of those happy couples. 

_Or… maybe? Is he my boyfriend now?_

Louis supposes that he doesn’t really know what they are, but when he takes one look at Harry and the wide smile pulled across his face and the twinkle in his eyes, and he doesn’t really care. 

“Is here alright?” Harry asks, pulling Louis off the path and to an empty patch of grass. 

“It’s all the same, isn’t it?” Louis rolls his eyes fondly. 

Harry shrugs, pulls off his messenger bag, and plops down on the ground. He lays back and rests his hands behind his head, clearly enjoying the high sun. He definitely looks good in it; Louis will give him that. The rays bounce off his curls and lick at his skin, illuminating the way is body is stretched out amongst the green. Louis finds himself staring at the patch of skin revealed by Harry’s shirt riding up. That’ll have to wait until later, though. Once Louis is able to tear his eyes away, he pries the football out of his rucksack. He contemplates for only a moment before tossing the football at Harry. It smacks him right in the gut, and Louis dissolves into a fit of giggles at the sound Harry makes: somewhere between a groan and a gurgle. Harry curls in on himself before turning his head to glare at Louis. 

“What was that for?”

“Come on! Let’s play some footie.”

“I really don’t think you want to do that.”

“Is that a challenge?” 

“No, I didn’t mean—”

“Well challenge accepted! Game on!”

“Seriously, Lou—”

“You can’t back out now, Curly! Let’s go!” 

Louis can’t label the look on Harry’s face as anything other than sheer terror. What exactly Harry is afraid of, he doesn’t know. But either way, he’s always had a competitive streak, and no matter how cute Harry’s face is, Louis _will_ win. Harry slowly clambers back to his feet and sheepishly wipes a few stray curls off his forehead before offering Louis a small smile, the dimple in his left cheek making a small appearance. 

“Here, you can start with the ball,” Louis says kicking the ball towards Harry’s feet. 

_Damn that smile!_

“What about goals?” 

Louis looks around, eyes trying to catch on something to use. He goes over and grabs his rucksack from where he abandoned it in the grass, and positions it. It’s only half a goal though, and Harry will need to use his messenger bag for his own goal. For lack of anything else and because the impulsive side of his brain says it’s a good idea, Louis pulls his shirt off and balls it up, placing it opposite his rucksack in the grass. 

“There,” he says, straightening up and looking at Harry. 

The impulsive side of his brain was definitely right because it is so worth it to see the look on Harry’s face. He’s got his bottom lip pulled between his teeth, a light blush brushing its way across the apple of his cheeks, and his eyes are glued to Louis’ chest. It makes a smug smile tug at the corner of Louis’ lips. 

“Come on, Haz; we haven’t got all day! Set up your goal!” 

The French boy visibly jolts out of his staring and scampers over to grab his messenger bag. He takes his time positioning the bag in the grass before standing up and peeling his shirt off his back. He sets the balled up material down then stands up fully and faces Louis again. 

_Oh wow. Really regretting the whole using shirts for goal thing now._

“Start the game now?” Harry asks. 

“Yeah! Yeah. Right. Game,” Louis replies, trying to take his eyes off those accursed v-lines. 

_Focus Tommo! This is your element!_

Harry smiles and begins dribbling the ball towards Louis. He’s quite clumsy in his movements, coming close to tripping over his own feet or the ball a few times, and Louis can’t help but find it endearing. Despite how Harry looks like an adorable new born fawn, Louis still refuses to lose. He runs forward and with an easy twist of his body, he steals the ball from Harry and heads towards the goal. Harry stumbles behind him, but before he can catch up, Louis lets the ball glide off his foot and through the makeshift posts. 

“Goaaaaaaaal!” Louis cheers. “That’s one-nothing, Curly!” 

Harry shakes his head and goes to grab the ball from where it’s rolled off to. He puts the ball down on the grass opposite where Louis is standing and takes a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. His brow is furrowed and he appears to be chewing on the inside of his cheek, and Louis has to hold back a coo. 

_So cute when he’s concentrating._

Despite his obvious determination, Harry is unable to score, Louis making an easy save before ploughing past Harry for another goal. 

“Have to step up your game, Styles. Two-nothing already.” 

A frustrated huff passes Harry’s lips as he slams the ball onto the grass. He wipes some sweat that’s formed on his forehead and looks up at Louis then back down at the ball. Louis waits patiently as Harry continues to stare down at the ball. _Probably giving himself a cute little pep talk in his head._ A few moments pass before Harry begins dribbling the ball forward, and Louis is quick on the defence. Harry tries to deke past the English boy, but he seems to have forgotten which leg is his left and which is his right, as his legs tangle with Louis’ and both boys go tumbling to the grass in a splay of limbs. 

“You oaf!” Louis cries, pushing at the elbow that’s currently digging into his gut. 

Harry turns his head to look up at Louis with big wide eyes and his bottom lip stuck out in a pout. “See? This is why I said you didn’t want to play with me! I’m terrible!” 

“Aw babe; you weren’t that bad,” Louis says, his voice sounding soft to even his own ears, as he runs a soothing hand through Harry’s hair. 

_You’re meant to be gloating! Not fonding!_

“Yes, I was,” Harry mumbles, pressing his face into Louis’ chest. 

“You just need to work at it, try not to have two left feet.” 

Harry grumbles out some reply, but Louis is unable to make out the muffled words. 

“How about I help you? We can like practice and stuff,” Louis offers. 

Harry slowly lifts his head to look up at Louis again. “Can we just have a picnic with the food from earlier instead?” 

“Yeah, sure, babe, but you have to get off me first. You’re sort of crushing me.” 

A beautiful pink blush sweeps across Harry’s cheeks at that, blooming like flowers in spring across his skin. He stumbles to his feet and holds out a hand. With a smile, Louis takes the proffered hand and lets Harry pull him to his feet. They both collect their respective shirts and bags and take refuge under the shade of a tree where Harry begins pulling the sandwiches and drinks out of his messenger bag. Both boys eat and chat idly. Of course, Harry opts to keep his shirt off, and Louis struggles to finish his sandwich without staring. _And drooling. Jesus! How is this fair?!_ Once Harry finishes his last bite, Louis doesn’t wait a moment. He pounces and swallows the other boy’s yelp of surprise between his lips. Harry’s hands are warm against his waist and his tongue is sweet with the bananas from his sandwich. It makes a smile tug at the corner of Louis’ lips as the two boys share lazy kisses in the warm summer weather. 

Eventually, the two boys pull apart, small smiles dancing across their faces. Louis tries to convince Harry to play some more football, but the French boy is adamant against it. Instead, Louis joins a footie game that a group of lads are having a few metres away. Harry stands on the side-lines as his personal cheerleader, shouting and jumping around. Sometimes, Louis loses his focus because he keeps seeing the flash of Harry’s camera out of the corner of his eye. He’s still able to get in two goals for his team, though, and Harry scoops him up and spins him around when the game ends. 

“Harry, put me down!” Louis gets out between laughs against the French boy’s shoulder. 

“But my boyfriend did so good! We should celebrate!” 

Louis swears he can feel his heart freeze in his chest. Tiny tendrils taking a firm grip of every organ of his abdomen. And yet, at the same time, there’s this tingling in his toes and it’s spreading warmth upward like a sweeping wave. He doesn’t know how to react. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling. 

“Boyfriend?” Louis somehow chokes out. 

“Oh.” That gorgeous blush from before is back. “I um—I thought—Is that alright?” 

Louis just shakes his head at this amazing boy in front of him, this boy that’s his, and shuts Harry up with a kiss.

\---

On Monday, Harry lures Louis out of bed using pancakes and the two boys ride over to visit Musée de Nissim Camondo. They take the audio tour of the house, and awe at the elaborate rooms and decorations. Louis’ heart wrenches as he listens to the fate of the family, and he smacks Harry when the tour ends for dragging him out of bed to make him sad. Harry apologises with sweet kisses and promises the next stop will be better. They travel just down the road and arrive outside a building reading ‘Mystery Escape’ in large letters. Louis gives a sceptical look to Harry’s smirk, but once the game starts and the clock starts ticking, he is quick to get into it.

 _Always loved a good challenge._

Harry is little help though, only laughing at Louis’ desperate attempts to get out of the room. As the time ticks closer and closer to the end, Louis becomes more and more frustrated, and Harry starts laughing harder and harder. The time runs out, and Louis falls to the floor in anguish. 

“We lost!” he wails. 

“That was hilarious to witness,” Harry gets out between bouts of laughter. 

“Why did you say it was a good idea to do it in French?!” Louis stands to his feet and jabs a finger at Harry’s chest. “We could’ve won if the clues were in English!” 

“I thought you were meant to be immersed in the language?” Harry raises a challenging eyebrow. 

“Shut up! You owe me ice cream now!”

\---

Tuesday, they walk over to Musée des Arts et Métiers, as it’s close to Harry’s place, grabbing breakfast at a café along the way. Louis doesn’t even care how sappy it might be that they play footsy under the table or share a croissant and jam or that they steal sweet kisses along the way because this is his boy. His boy who makes his heart flutter and his head fuzzy and his cheeks hurt from smiling all the time. His boy who takes too many photos with his shining eyes and dimples. _His boy_. And so, when breakfast is finished, Louis doesn’t even protest as Harry leads him to yet another museum. He even gets quite excited over the different inventions and objects. And his mood only goes up as they end the day by going out to dinner before retreating back to Harry’s flat for the night.

\---

The next morning, Harry and Louis pack small bags and hop on the moped, driving up to Normandie. They spend the first day arriving in Bayeux. They visit the cathedral, and Louis is enraptured by the massive gothic structure. The inside is even more amazing with its high arching ceilings and light pouring in through the windows. They sit and whisper amongst themselves under the stained glass window for a while before walking down the road to visit the museum.

The Bayeux tapestry is amazing. Louis’ jaw actually drops when he takes in the size of it. Harry chuckles at his dumbfounded expression when he comes up next to him. Louis shoves Harry and to his surprise earns a kiss on the cheek in response. Harry and Louis then walk hand in hand along the intricate woven story, dropping comments here and there ever so often.

 _For once, I have the upper hand ‘cuz it’s English history!_

Once, the boys have visited the other exhibits in the museum, they head back up the road to get a late lunch/early dinner at Le Petit Normand. It’s simple and nice. The food is delicious and there’s a candle in the centre of the table that just adds to the peaceful atmosphere. It feels like a proper date as they lock ankles under the table and share giggles around their forks. They even split a dessert, and Louis tries not to notice that Harry lets him eat more than his fair half. 

They end the day by stopping by the British War Cemetery. It’s eerie seeing the rows upon rows of graves. The sun is beginning to dip on the horizon, and the gold, pink, and purple hues that paint the sky bounce off the white of the graves. Along with the rows of flowers planted in front of each grave, it’s almost weird seeing so much splash of colour in such a solemn setting. Louis stays tucked into Harry’s side as they walk through the grounds. He briefly wonders if there could be a great uncle buried here somewhere, if there’s a Tomlinson remembered with these other men. 

“You okay?” Harry whispers, as they walk around the Cross of Sacrifice in the middle of the grounds. 

“Yeah,” Louis shakes his head of his thoughts. “It’s just weird. Like when you learn about it in school, you sort of distant yourself from all the bad history and stuff, but then you’re here and… I dunno.” 

“I know. I get what you mean.” 

The sun begins sinking further and further down the horizon, leaving behind a smattering of inky purples and faint twinkles of stars, so the two boys leave the cemetery and head for their youth hostel. They decided to spend the extra money to get a private room, so they don’t have to worry about anyone disturbing them as they drag themselves to their room. Louis’ just happy he doesn’t have to deal with any prying eyes as he strips down to his boxers and squeezes into the bed with Harry. The long drive on top of all the walking around has left an exhaustion clawing deep into his bones, and he can’t find it in himself to care that the bed may be a bit too small. He just curls into the taller boy’s arms and tucks his head against Harry’s collarbones. He barely murmurs a ‘goodnight’ before his eyes are drifting shut and he’s being lulled away to the land of sleep.

\---

Friday, Louis and Harry decide to have a lie in. Louis can feel Harry shift beside him, muscles shifting and tensing. He can also feel the rays of sun prying through the cracks of the curtains before dancing across the skin of his back. Despite both those things, he refuses to open his eyes and clings to the sleepy fog that edges around his brain.

“Lou,” comes Harry’s gruff voice. Then there’s a nose nuzzling into the hair behind his ear and gentle lips pressing a kiss to the skin there and arms wrapping around his waist and tugging him closer. And Louis tries to keep clinging, but this is making it difficult and a soft smile is starting to tug at the corners of his lips. 

_Maybe reality is better than any dream for once._

“Louis,” Harry whispers against his skin, and Louis can’t help the whine that slips past his lips. That makes Harry chuckle and Louis smiles at the fact that he can feel it, lets the vibration of warmth settle comfortably under his skin. 

“Come on, Lou; we have to get up,” Harry tries again, sitting up in bed this time and making Louis whine again. 

_How dare my space heater try and leave me!_

“It’s too early; come back!” Louis wraps his arms around Harry’s waist and tries to pull him back down. 

“It’s half ten in the morning! That’s not early,” Harry turns his head to smile down at Louis, and it makes something seize up in Louis’ chest. He’s so pretty in the morning. His hair is extra poufy, and he has pillow creases imbedded in his cheek. But even more so, his eyes are a radiant shade of bright green, tiredness only lingering around the edges. There’s a lazy pull to his lips, and Louis sort of wants to kiss him senseless morning breath aside. In fact, Louis wouldn’t mind waking up every morning to this sight. 

_Whoa. Jesus. That’s a heavy thought for before noon._

“Now come on, lazy,” Harry says, climbing out of bed and giving Louis’ ass a playful slap as he goes. 

Louis watches as Harry walks to the bathroom before burying his face back into the pillow. He gives himself another few minutes in bed then drags himself up and scurries after Harry. They shower together to save time, which just ends in wet, lazy kisses under the spray. Harry washes Louis’ hair for him, but all he succeeds in is getting soap in Louis’ eyes, who then demands more kisses as compensation. 

Once they’re both sufficiently clean, they get dressed and catch the end of breakfast in the main part of the hostel. They hop back on the moped and head out west. They opt out of the guided tour and instead walk along Omaha beach on their own. They walk hand and hand along the sand, admiring the different metal structures abandoned on the shore after the historic battle. They take turns checking inside the bunkers, and end the trip by asking a lady to take a photo of them both in front of the tank. 

Before they head back to Bayeux, they visit the American cemetery. It’s much more daunting then the British one. Just rows and rows of white nestled along the green of the grass. The inscription at the beginning reads that there are over nine thousand graves and that sends a chill up Louis’ spine. 

They drive back to Bayeux just as the sun is sinking in the sky and choose to just grab dinner at the restaurant attached to the hostel. Harry is still licking his fingers from his apple tarte tatin when Louis pulls him back to their room for an early night in. 

_Because honestly, if he’s going to do that, his tongue and fingers should at least be put to better use._

\---

The next day, Harry and Louis set out in the afternoon to drive back into Paris. Harry drops Louis back off at his host family’s house. _Pretty sure six nights away is forbidden…_ They share a bit of a steamy kiss goodbye on Harry moped before Louis scampers inside with a wink and a promise to meet up again tomorrow. When he gets inside, he ignores the smirk Madame Roux is wearing from where she’s standing suspiciously close to the front window and heads straight upstairs. He collapses on his bed with a giddy smile firmly plastered on his face and digs his phone out of his pocket, dialling Liam’s number. Liam lets him gush all about his trip to Normandy, but Louis is quite sure that Liam has actually moved the phone away from his ear about five minutes ago. But he can’t find it in himself to care at the moment; he’s beyond happy. That is until Liam mentions that fact that their train back to London leaves in six days.

_Leave it to Payno to be a buzzkill._

“Have you told your French boy yet?”

“No…” 

“Good job, Lou.” 

“Shut up!” 

“You do realise you’re leaving the country in less than a week, right? You can’t just stay here and think no one will notice!” 

“No one asked you, Liam!” Louis yells down the speaker before hanging up and tossing his phone across the room. 

_Stupid Liam with his stupid logic._

Despite the fact it’s still only evening, Louis decides to go to sleep early, curling around his pillow and trying to remember the warmth and feel of having Harry beside him for the past nights.

\---

Sunday morning, Louis wakes up and takes a shower. He stands under the spray for longer than is probably necessary, but doesn’t care. He scrubs away his conversation with Liam last night and decides to focus on the present and the present only.

He is quick to get dressed and style his hair before he’s darting down the stairs and out the door to meet Harry, who is just pulling off his helmet. He shakes out his curls and offers Louis one of his wide dimpled smiles, eyes twinkling in the high sun. He’s got on a tight red striped shirt and his classic tight black jeans, and it’s been less than twenty four hours and yet Louis is still about to swallow his tongue and choke on it. 

_It’s like a fucking scene out of a movie. How is this boy not illegal?_

“Hey, Lou,” Harry greets, stepping forward and pulling Louis into a sweet kiss. 

“Hi,” Louis says back, poking a finger into Harry’s dimple. “So where are we going today since there’s nothing left on my list?” 

“I was thinking the market by my flat.” 

“A market? Because _that’s_ exciting.” 

“It’s a nice market!” 

“You know we have markets in England, right? It’s not some French concept.” 

“Shut up and get on the moped!” 

“So demanding. Honestly,” Louis teases, but he pulls on his helmet anyways and slips onto the bike. 

They park outside Harry’s flat before walking the short distance to the market. Louis’ surprised anyone knows it’s there, tucked between two building with only a slim metal arch designating the place. 

“Does that sign say market of red babies?” Louis questions, a bit proud that Harry’s small French lessons are starting to pay off, as Harry leads him through the small alleyway and into the market area. 

Any further questions are stopped before they can leave the filter of his brain when he catches sight of the market. It’s quaint, only a few stalls here and there, but the aroma is tantalising. A combination of fresh bread, fruit, flowers, and cakes is making Louis dizzy and his mouth water. 

“You were saying…?”

“Shut up. I want one of those cookies!” 

Harry chuckles and they walk over to the colourful stall where an array of sweets, including cookies the size of Harry’s hand, are laid out in a delicate display. Harry buys them two cookies before they begin exploring the rest of the market. They walk hand in hand between each stall, Harry talking to some of the stall owners and Louis tasting some of the different fruits and chesses on display. Harry buys Louis a bouquet of flowers from the florist stall, and Louis rolls his eyes and makes a quip about how the French boy is being sappy, but he still buries his smile in the buds, breathing in their sweet scent. When Louis looks back up, Harry’s got his camera to his face, and Louis feels a blush begin to seep through the pores of his cheeks. He smiles nonetheless because he knows Harry’s eyes are bright and shining even behind the lens that hides them. 

They head back to Harry’s flat as the day begins to cool down and evening hangs in the air. Harry uses his just purchased ingredients to make them dinner while Louis sits on the counter and watches. He can’t help but think about how domestic it all feels as he swings his legs back and forth. Harry humming a tune under his breath, occasionally giving Louis things to mix in between traded kisses, it makes something warm pool low in Louis’ abdomen, makes him feel at home. It’s like tendrils of happiness that weaves their way through every fibre of his body, and he clings to them desperately, lets them fill up his heart and drown out any negative thoughts that try to niggle their way out from the back of his mind where he’s locked them away. 

“You okay, babe?” Harry asks, offering Louis a plate. 

“Yeah, yeah, fine,” Louis says, pulling him in for a sweet kiss before nabbing a fork off the counter. 

They spend the rest of dinner stealing more kisses between bites before retreating to the bedroom for the night.

\---

Monday and Tuesday pass in a blur of lounging in the summer sun and sharing lazy kisses. They return to Parc Monceau where Louis tries to teach Harry some semblance of skill at football. It involves a lot of stumbling around and a constant reminder to Harry that he doesn’t actually have two left feet. Eventually, Harry succeeds in making a goal and Louis may or may not cheer extra loud.

_I’m just proud of my teaching skills, alright?_

After, the boys grab ice cream and relax in the shade of one of the large trees scattered throughout the park. Harry tries to get Louis to try some of his banana flavour, but Louis is having none of it. 

“Get your healthy flavoured ice cream away from me!” 

“Come on, Lou. Just try it.” 

“Having healthy flavours is a crime against ice cream! _A crime!_ ” 

“But I think you’ll like it!” 

“Leave me to my mint chocolate chip, you blasphemous person!” 

“Lou—”

Harry doesn’t get any more out as the ice cream he’s hovering near Louis’ face in temptation gets all over the blue-eyed boy’s nose. Louis tries to act mad, but it’s very difficult to do when Harry breaks out into a fit of giddy giggles. How someone as good looking as Harry can make himself look like an adorable kitten still baffles Louis. He makes Louis’ cheeks ache with how often he’s smiling around his boy. Still, Louis uses his ice cream to draw a sticky streak across Harry’s cheek in revenge. Harry squawks in protest but Louis continues to smile smugly at his achievement. 

“That’s what you get. Now eat your stupid healthy flavoured ice cream!” 

Harry doesn’t stop giggling, even as he takes another lick of his cone.

\---

Wednesday, Harry surprises Louis with tickets to the Palais Garnier. Louis is going to study drama at university next year, so he can’t help being excited; although, he’s never been to an opera performance before. So Harry makes them a nice, early dinner before they both put on their nicest clothes and head out.

If he’s honest, Louis finds the opera incredibly boring. It doesn’t help that he has no idea what the actors— _are opera people called actors?_ —are saying. Still, he puts on his poshest accent as he fiddles with the tiny binoculars they were given and comments about what’s going on on the stage. He and Harry end up laughing into each other’s shoulders, ignoring the glares from the obviously more sophisticated people around them. Of course, that just leads to Louis commenting on the people in the other seats: the hairstyles and the dresses and _why is that woman wearing gloves? Is she planning on murdering someone?_ Harry is left trying to stifle his laughter, which just makes him look like he’s having a fit, and they’re politely asked to leave early. Louis can’t find it in himself to regret it though when they buy a bottle of wine on the way back and spend the remainder of the evening sprawled out in Harry’s flat.

\---

Thursday morning brings more dread than it probably should. The sun is bright and warm as its rays trickle in through the window and dance across the duvet of Harry’s bed, but all Louis feels is cold. It’s like he can hear the ticking in his head, counting down to tomorrow 2:00, counting down to when he’ll hop on a train and leave Harry. The thought alone is making it hard to breathe and everything inside him is stinging and squeezing. He curls up tight under the duvet, wondering if he makes himself small enough, makes himself disappear, then he won’t have to go.

_If only changing reality was that easy._

He groans and buries his face in the pillow just as the bed dips beside him. 

“Is that any way to greet someone who comes bearing breakfast?” 

“It’s Thursday,” Louis whines, not removing his face from the pillow, trying to memorise Harry’s smell to remember when he goes back. Then there’s arms wrapping around his waist and lips grazing across his shoulder, and he’s trying to memorise those sensations too. 

“I know,” Harry mumbles against his skin. 

Louis stays quiet. There’s nothing else he wants to say, nothing that can do justice or explain everything that’s swirling around inside him. It’s like some sort of freak storm with volcanoes erupting in his chest, earthquakes in his gut, and monsoons in his head. It’s like every muscle, every ligament, every nerve fibre is being pulled taut in separate directions. It makes something sticky and clammy settle in his throat and heat prickle his eyes, so he just enjoys the silence that’s blanketed the room. He enjoys the warmth and smell of Harry solid and wrapped around him. He allows himself to bask in the peace and calm of Harry’s flat, of Harry’s bed, of Harry, before it all comes crashing down. 

“Lou, we do need to get up,” Harry’s low voice breaks the stillness. “We can’t just stay in bed all day.” 

Louis whines again and rolls over onto his back to face Harry. This boy with his muss of curls and shining green eyes and dimples that lured Louis in. This boy with a heart the size of Paris itself who loves to take candid photos. This boy full of sappy French phrases and a quirky laugh. This boy who somehow wiggled his way into Louis’ life and heart, and Louis’ sure that he isn’t going to ever find his way out. Not that Louis wants him to. It’s like Harry’s branded there inside him, and the only way to get rid of him is to tear the flesh. Harry will only be gone when he’s ripped out and Louis’ heart is taken with him. 

“Lou?”

The voice startles Louis, but there’s a gentle hand carding fingers through his fringe, and he lets his eyes fall shut. 

“We’ll be okay,” Harry whispers. “I know we will.” 

“Always the optimist.” 

“Well it’s not fun going through life as a pessimist.” 

“I prefer the term realist.” 

“Shush up and eat your breakfast.” 

Louis can’t help the smile that tugs at his lips, even more so when he opens his eyes to see Harry’s ‘angry kitten face’ as Louis’ named it. 

_Honestly, how does he expect anyone to take that face serious? It just makes me want to pet his hair._

Still, Louis sits up and grabs the plate of pancakes from where it was abandoned on the bedside table. Harry takes the seat beside him and they both eat from the same plate, sometimes feeding each other bites. Once the plate is empty and they’ve shared some syrupy sweet kisses, Harry and Louis take a quick shower and head into town. They opt out of taking the moped. Instead, they choose to walk and Louis is struck by how familiar Paris has become. It’s no longer Harry leading Louis around. Now, they walk equally hand in hand, Louis recognising streets and sometimes reminding Harry of shortcuts. They walk past shops and cafés that Louis’ visited, and it feels like walking down his own street back in London to him. In a way, Paris has begun to feel like home to him. The sounds of traffic and French conversations around him, the feel of the sun beating down on his back, the smell of fresh bread mixed with smog, and the sight of gothic buildings towering over him, it all feels comfortable to Louis, especially with Harry beside him. London seems so far away as they walk down and along the Seine. 

They walk to Île Saint-Louis because _it’s my name, Harry! An island named after me! We can’t not go there!_ Nothing about the island particularly stands out; it’s lines of tall stone buildings full of flats. That doesn’t stop Harry and Louis from weaving between the roads, stopping into some of the different shops, Louis realising belatedly that he needs to get souvenirs for his sisters. After, they pick up lunch from a café and take refuge under the shade of a tree along the water. They spend the rest of the afternoon relaxing there. Louis keeps his head tucked against Harry’s shoulder, swinging his feet back and forth above the water and feeding bread to the occasional ducks that swims past. 

After Louis takes a nap in the cool summer breeze using Harry as a pillow, he and Harry head back across the Seine. They walk along Pont de l’Archevêché, admiring the different locks secured to the railings. There’s thousands upon thousands of them, all in an array of colours and with a variety of initials carved and drawn onto the surfaces. Some of the locks have rust gnawing away at the metal, signifying just how old they are. It makes Louis think about all the different couples that passed through here. He wonders if the promise of forever that comes with throwing the key into the river was kept. He wonders if whenever the couple fights if they remember that lock on this bridge. He wonders if they’re as happy and as in love now as when they stepped foot on this pavement. 

“Hey, Lou?” 

When Louis looks over, Harry has a small smile tugging up the corner of his lips and a nervous ring fogging the edges of his green eyes. His shoulders are slightly hunched and he looks so small and wary and it makes Louis quirk an eyebrow up in confusion. But as his eyes travel down Harry’s figure, Louis finds the source of the taller boy’s anxiety. In his hands, Harry has a small gold lock and a black sharpie. Louis swears he can hear his pulse ringing in his ears, fast and deafening. Louis is leaving in less than twenty four hours, and Harry is standing there with an adorable and hopeful expression painted across his face and a lock clasped in his hands, and what does that mean?! It’s pretty significant, right?! What’s Harry trying to say?! Louis’ sure too much time has passed and that he’s being too quiet, but he can’t even get his thoughts to slow down let alone try and form proper words and sentences. 

_It’s just a lock, right? Just a lock?_

But it’s not, and Louis knows it’s not. There’s so much meaning behind the gesture and even more once that lock is attached to the bridge. It makes Louis’ limbs tingle and his stomach twist, and somehow his heart is trapped between constricting in fear and exploding with fondness. So much fondness for this curly, lanky boy who is still looking at Louis expectantly, his hopeful smile beginning to twitch downward with the stretch of silence. 

“I—It’s just—I told you we’d be okay, so this is my way of saying… that,” Harry explains, his lip caught between his teeth. 

“Oh,” Louis replies, hoping his brain will kick start back into working again before more dumb things come out of his mouth. 

_Lamest. Answer. Ever. What the fuck, Tommo?!_

Harry looks even more crestfallen by Louis’ response. His lips are now pulling downwards into a full blown frown and the nervousness in his eyes has amped up so that those greens bleed panic. He looks so small, and the sight makes Louis’ chest hurt even more. That seems to be the spark Louis’ brain needed, though, and he tries to grasp at words, at coherent sentences, to say something that will wipe that wounded look of Harry’s face. Never very good when it comes to words, Louis steps forward instead and takes the lock and sharpie from Harry’s hands. Harry starts at the sudden movement, but Louis ignores it. He uncaps the sharpie and bends over the lock. He tries to keep his handwriting as neat as possible as he scribbles HS + LT onto the metal, adding a heart for cliché emphasis. 

When Louis looks back up, Harry’s face is painted with the widest smile so that his dimples carve deep into his cheeks. The sight makes Louis’ heart flutter and washes away any doubt or regret that tries to wiggle its way into his bones. A matching smile pulls at Louis’ lips as well, and he can’t help stepping up onto his toes to press a kiss to Harry’s cheek before turning back to the bridge and its cluster of locks. 

“Alright, Curly, now find me a place to lock this,” he says, scanning the railing for a gap.

Harry and Louis end up walking up and down the bridge before they find an opening. It’s a bit of a fumble them both trying to put the lock on together, so Louis opts to do it while Harry watches, arms wrapped around Louis’ waist and chin resting on the smaller boy’s shoulder. Once their lock is secure, Harry takes a photo of it nestled amongst the other locks and then takes another with Louis in it—despite his eye roll. Content with his photos, Harry goes to walk back off the bridge, but Louis grabs his arm and yanks him back. He ignores Harry’s questioning look and steals his camera, turning the lens towards themselves. Harry is quick to catch on and presses closer against Louis as he tries to guess the right angle to have the shot right. Louis plasters on a wide, crinkly-eyed smile, and just as he presses down on the button to take the photo, Harry turns to kiss Louis’ cheek. 

“I’m keeping that one,” Louis says, turning to Harry with a smile and pressing a real kiss to his lips. “Now come on! I demand you feed me again!” He grabs Harry’s hand again, and they head off the bridge. 

On the walk back to Harry’s, they stop at a supermarket for food and end up bickering between the shelves like a couple that’s been together longer than a few weeks. But then again, Louis supposes, that’s just them. It just sort of happened, the way they fell and moulded into each other. They’ve blended together so perfectly like the colours of those impressionist paintings Harry is so fond of. And so on the walk back, Louis holds Harry’s hand a bit tighter and presses a bit closer and wonders if maybe they’ll mix together into one image too. 

They arrive back at the flat, and Louis kicks his shoes off his feet—as he always does despite Harry’s nagging—before jumping up on the kitchen counter while Harry organises the food they just bought on the space beside him. It strikes Louis then just how much of a home this place has become. His shoes sprawled across the floor, his clothes strewn around Harry’s bedroom, his toothbrush resting with Harry’s in the bathroom. There’s a homely comfort that Louis feels when he looks around at the worn furniture. It’s the contentment he feels waking up every morning to the familiar scratch of Harry’s sheets, to the curly haired boy pressed against him or to the smell of breakfast drifting in. It’s the leisure of lounging on the sofa while Harry putters about cleaning. It’s the affection that blooms as he watches Harry add a new photo to his wall. It’s everything about this tiny flat tucked away in Paris. The flat has become his as much as the taller boy’s. It’s become _theirs_. 

Louis’ drawn out of his thoughts by Harry nudging between his legs and pressing his nose to Louis’ neck. 

“What’re you thinking about?” Harry asks, making Louis shiver from the hot breath against his skin. 

“Nothing much really,” Louis replies, giving Harry’s hips a gentle squeeze. 

Harry hums and nips at the skin of Louis’ neck in response before pulling away. “So last meal?” 

Louis feels a sigh weigh heavy in his heart at those words, but he forces a smile across his lips and jumps down off the counter, gripping Harry’s shoulders for balance when he topples over slightly. “I want to help this time!” 

“I thought you said before that you’ve never cooked?” 

“There’s a first time for everything, Harold!” 

Harry raises a sceptical eyebrow, but he doesn’t say anything. Louis takes that as initiative and turns to face the counter, examining the different ingredients spread out. He picks each one and looks at it with his best inquisitive face, even tapping his chin for good measure. Harry steps up behind him, resting his hands on Louis’ hips and hooking his chin over Louis’ shoulder, and watches with patient eyes. 

“Okay, if I remember correctly from all those cooking shows me mum watches, you just stick this in this,” Louis says, holding up the mozzarella cheese and package of chicken in each hand. “Doesn’t seem too hard if you ask me.” 

Harry stays where he is while Louis begins the process. He doesn’t offer any criticism or corrections and Louis is thankful for the encouraging and solid presence behind him. Even if Harry tries to stifle his chuckles into Louis’ shoulder when the blue eyed boy complains about the horribleness of sticking his hand in a raw chicken. 

_It’s fucking slimey, okay?!_

With the chicken stuffed, both boys use a combined effort of delicate hands to wrap the Parma ham around the bird. They leave it to cook in the oven while they split the task of peeling potatoes. That just results in it taking longer, though, as they keep bumping shoulders and jabbing the other in the side with elbows. Neither can find it in them to mind, as laughter rings out and blankets the small flat in warmth and comfort. 

The meal turns out not to be too bad, and Louis uses the delicious taste and pride over having made it to distract himself from darker thoughts over the fact it’s almost eight pm. He just stuffs his face and makes goofy faces at Harry across the table until the other boy is spluttering with laughter around his fork. There’s a swooping in Louis’ chest at the sight of Harry’s dimple and the glitter in his eyes, and once Harry’s plate is clear, Louis wastes no time in climbing into his lap. He buries his hands in those favourite curls of his and presses his lips to those plump ones he’s memorised so well. He can taste their dinner on Harry’s tongue. 

_Or maybe it’s on my own tongue…_

Louis doesn’t really care though, as he’s too focused on the sighs Harry is breathing into his mouth and the fingers tightening on his waist. 

Neither boy speaks about their fears of the impending morning or what’s waiting for them, but there’s a whirlwind of feelings drenched in every slide of lips, every flick of tongue, every nip of teeth. It’s present in the way Harry grips onto Louis’ body like he wants to imprint the skin, like that’ll keep Louis from disappearing from between his fingers. It’s evident in the harsh tugs of Louis’ hands in Harry’s hair, clinging with everything he has. And if when they move to the bedroom, there’s a desperate passion between every kiss, every gasp of the other’s name, every slide of skin against skin, it stays locked between the walls of the flat. And if Louis clings a bit more desperately to Harry’s frame as he presses in or if Harry’s eyes glisten a bit while he touches his forehead to Louis’, no one ever has to know. 

After, they lay tangled in the sheets and each other, their breaths mingling and skin tingling from burning touches. Neither mentions how the other is forcing their eyes to stay open to stave off the morning or how they’re doing the same. Louis focuses on the gold specks swimming in green to ignore the heavy pull of sleep against his eyelids, as he draws aimless shapes across Harry’s chest. He feels a fond smile slide across his lips as Harry opens his eyes extra wide after blinking for a few moments too long. The curly haired boy gives a sleepy smile back and blinks again, but his eyes don’t quite open back up. Louis presses one last kiss to the corner of Harry’s mouth and scoots closer. He watches Harry’s breathing even out and swallows down the words threatening to bubble over, tucks them deep in the crevices of his heart for safe keeping and squeezes his eyes shut. 

_I am so in love with you. Please don’t let me go._

\---

Light prickles past Louis’ eyelids and wills him awake. He would be slightly more annoyed if it weren’t for the comforting press of Harry against his back. He can smell that apple sweetness of the curly haired lad’s shampoo and can feel each breath Harry takes against his skin along with the puff of exhale next to his ear. It’s warm and comforting and Louis can’t help but move back closer into Harry’s embrace. It’s safe and it’s home, and if Louis has any say in the matter, he’d very much like to stay in this position forever. He and Harry can just order takeaway straight to bed and spent the rest of their lives cuddling and not wearing clothes and using Harry’s laptop for entertainment. The perfect life.

 _Wait. Shit. Tuesday._

The realisation crashes down on Louis like a thunderstorm to dry earth, and Louis squeezes his eyes shut as tight as he can, until it almost hurts. He tries to will his body, plead with it, to go back to sleep, to make today not come, to give him some more blissful time in this beautiful boy’s arms. His body decides to have a mutiny instead, pulling him deep into the realm of awakeness. 

_Mind over matter. Mind over matter. Oh for fucks sake!_

There’s a soft intake of air behind Louis and the arm slung around his waist tightens slightly, signalling Harry’s awake. 

“Haz?” Louis whispers. 

“Hmm?” 

And Louis doesn’t actually know what to say. His mind has drawn a blank and his tongue feels like a stone in his mouth. How is he meant to express the emotions raging like a forest fire under his skin? They clog up his throat and claw at his chest and weigh in his stomach and drag through his veins. He’s suffocating, and he can’t even make a sound around the water his head is held under let alone speak coherent sentences. So he seeks safety, and for Louis, safe is rolling over and burying himself deeper in Harry’s chest, pressing so close that he can almost crawl into the taller boy’s skin. And somewhere deep in Louis’ bones, there’s a thrum that wants to do just that. Harry seems to understand Louis’ unspoken words, seems to feel the same, by the way his arms wrap tight around Louis’ form. They feel like they might leave bruises from their grip, but Louis sort of hopes they will just so he has something to remember Harry by, has a part of him scarred into his skin. 

“We need to get up soon,” Harry mumbles into Louis’ hair. “So you can pack.” 

“I can just toss it all in the bag. Me mum will just wash it all when I get back anyways.” 

“I bet she’d appreciate it all nice and folded more.” 

“Maybe...” 

A silence stretches over the space, and despite Louis’ assent, neither boy makes to move or get up. They’re content to remain tangled limbs and slow breathes and desperate hearts. Louis allows himself to focus on the rise and fall of Harry’s chest against his own and the long fingers threading through the hairs at the back of his neck. It lulls him a bit, but it doesn’t stop the twisting deep in his intestines, the tightening of his chest in time with the ticks of the clock. 

“Lou…” 

“No.” 

“Lou.” 

Louis pulls back and looks up at Harry’s tone. There’s a fragility underlying that single word, like if the sentence were to go on, Harry’s voice would break. That coupled with the cracking look on Harry’s face, the pain swimming in his eyes, makes Louis reach up and cup the taller boy’s cheek. Harry leans into the touch, his eyes closing briefly before returning their lock on Louis’. 

“We need to get up,” Harry repeats, his voice quieter than before. 

Louis nods and allows himself a few more seconds of staring before he pulls away and sits up, stretching his arms over his head as he feels the bed shift with Harry’s movement. 

“I’ll make some food while you back, babe,” Harry offers, pressing a kiss to Louis’ cheek that lingers more than it probably should before getting up completely. 

Louis watches as Harry disappears around the corner before turning his eyes to his things. Odd pairs of socks and boxers litter the floor and some of his t-shirts are thrown over the desk chair. His suitcase lays practically barren on the floor, and with a weary sigh, Louis pulls himself up from the bed and goes over to it. He begins the painstaking process of gathering his things. He tries to fold them as best he can but ends up shoving most of his clothes into the small space. He grabs his t-shirts off the chair and notices Harry’s purple jumper sitting underneath them. Louis chances a glance towards the kitchen before picking up the jumper and adding it to his suitcase. 

_I’m sure Harry won’t miss it. Probably won’t even know it’s gone._

“Hey, Lou!” 

“Yeah?” 

“Did you want me to bring breakfast in there so you can finish packing or...?”

“No, it’s alright! I’m coming!” 

Louis throws a few extra shirts on top of Harry’s jumper before jumping back to his feet. 

_I’m not hiding it! Just making sure what’s mine stays mine… or what’s now mine…_

He makes his way into the kitchen where Harry has a full spread. There’s pancakes and fruit and tea— _oh god bless this boy_. Harry offers a small smile as he finishes setting the table and Louis returns it without a second thought. Louis plops down into one of the seats and takes a sip of his tea, which Harry always makes to perfection. He pops some fruit into his mouth and tangles his feet with Harry’s under the table. 

They eat their breakfast in companionable silence before venturing back into the bedroom. Harry sits on the bed, folding the odd shirt or pair of trousers, while Louis finishes packing up his suitcase. Once the bag is zipped up and set by the door, the boys have an hour to kill before they need to leave for the train station. They take an extra-long shower, taking turns washing each other’s hair and sharing slippery kisses between the steam. Then they bundle up on the sofa for the rest of the time. Louis can’t help but press as close as he can into Harry’s embrace, trying to match his heartbeat with the curly haired boy’s as the clock ticks down like a death march. Harry doesn’t say anything, but Louis can hear his breath catch on the occasional inhale, like he’s trying to hold the pieces of himself together. Despite the fact the clock has just struck one, Louis feels a numbing calm settle in his bones. It’s as if his heart hasn’t quite caught up with brain, as if he can almost trick himself that it’s all a surreal joke. He can almost believe that he’s actually not going anywhere and that tomorrow, he’s going to wake up in this flat to Harry’s face and fresh cooked breakfast. He can almost let himself think that nothing’s going to change. 

_Almost…_

But Louis knows the truth. It’s clear in the way Harry’s holding him, in the way neither of them has taken their eyes off the clock on the wall, in the way a real smile has yet to be cracked this morning. 

_Which wait what? That is so not on._

“Haz,” Louis says, turning to face Harry. 

“Hmm?” Harry hums, turning his face to Louis as well. 

Louis makes his best silly face when he catches Harry’s eyes. There’s a slight twitch upward of Harry’s lips in response, but it’s not enough for Louis. He frowns slightly and proceeds to poke Harry in the cheek, exactly where he knows that dimple is hiding. 

“What’re you doing?” Harry asks.

“Dimple!” Louis whines. 

That seems to make Harry smile for real, and Louis keeps his finger pressed into the dent now present in Harry’s cheek. That results in Harry smiling just a bit wider. 

“Did you know your dimples were one of the first things I noticed about you?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Louis chuckles softly, stroking his finger down Harry’s cheek. “You and your dimples and your camera, demanding photos for directions!” 

“You love my photos!” 

“I do. They’re quirky. Like you.” 

“I’m going to take that as a compliment.” 

“You should because it is.” 

“Okay, babe,” Harry chuckles. 

Louis pouts at that response and stuff his face in Harry’s neck. 

“We should go soon, Lou. You probably have to be there early,” Harry says, tone quiet, as he slides a hand up Louis’ back and into his hair. 

“I know.” 

They stay in the same position as a few more minutes tick past, Louis’ hand tightening its grip in Harry’s shirt that little bit more and Harry pulling Louis that little bit closer. 

“What if I just missed my train?” Louis implores, biting his lip hard. 

“Lou…” Harry begins, and Louis can hear the emotions clogging his throat. 

“I know.” 

Eventually, the boys find the ability to get up off the sofa and they make their way to the train station. Even though Louis knows this city like the back of his hand now, he still pretends he doesn’t know the way just so that he and Harry can take the long way to the station, but Harry doesn’t seem to mind. He drags his feet as he walks hand in hand with the blue eyed boy. It’s too soon when they arrive at the station, and it’s with a heavy heart that Louis carries his suitcase up the steps and inside. He can see his class and their respective host families standing near the platform, the train name and time flashing on the screen above them. Louis knows he should join them, should step forward, but his feet don’t seem to be getting the memo. His heart is starting to race double time and the blissful fog in his mind has cleared and left only a jumble of thoughts. His blood feels like sludge in his veins and his skin is tingling, and Louis thinks he might actually be sick. 

_It’s real. Fucking-a, it’s actually happening._

Before Louis can think about what he’s doing, he’s spinning around and clinging tight around Harry’s waist. He buries his face in the taller boy’s chest and just tries to steady himself. He can hear Harry’s heartbeat and with each inhale, he gets a waft of the combination of body spray, fresh laundry, and something that is just so Harry. It’s calming but at the same time heart wrenching. His brain is trying to memorise every feeling while his heart seems to be trying to claw out of his chest and into his throat. Louis doesn’t even notice at first that Harry is whispering reassurances into his ear. The soft rumble of Harry’s voice and the sweet, soothing things being said only serve to make Louis’ stomach drop further, down to his feet, maybe even to China. Harry’s arms are secure, and it makes Louis feel safe but at the same time, he feels like he’s crashing, like he’s caught up in a wave and being thrown against the shore. 

“Don’t let me go. Kidnap me and make me stay,” Louis whispers, ignoring the obvious brokenness in his tone. 

“What about your sisters? You’ve told me all about them. I know how much you miss them,” Harry argues, although his tone sounds just as void as Louis’. 

“They can come too!” Louis exclaims, pulling back to look at Harry with wide, pleading eyes. 

“Six people in my tiny flat?” 

“I didn’t say it was a well thought out plan!” 

“Lou…” 

“No! No, I don’t want to hear it!” 

“Louis.” 

Harry’s voice is caught somewhere between broken and exasperated and it makes Louis swallow down the retort on his tongue. “What?” 

“We’ll be okay. We’ll write and call, okay?”

“I know, but—”

“I promise you, so stop worrying that pretty little head of yours.” 

“You think my head is pretty?” Louis asks, throwing a cheeky smile Harry’s way. 

“Oh of course,” Harry replies, keeping a serious expression and nodding his head. 

The response makes Louis smile wide. He knows his eyes are probably crinkling, but he doesn’t care because even though they’re both shattering on the inside, this gorgeous boy is still going along with all of Louis’ shit. And maybe that thought makes another fracture go crashing through Louis’ chest, but he doesn’t let it show.

“Anything else, Curly, before I ride off into the sunset?” Louis asks, bumping his hip against Harry’s. 

“One more thing.” 

“Oh?” 

“Yeah…” 

And Harry’s tone is back to being serious, and there’s a lot of emotions swimming in those green eyes that Louis can’t quite pinpoint. Harry almost looks nervous with the way he’s chewing on his bottom lip and taking slow breathes, the way his fingers twitch. It’s as if he’s trying to psych himself up for something, and it makes Louis’ eyebrows pinch in confusion. Harry takes a deep breath before his eyes lock with Louis’, and it sends a chill up the blue-eyed boy’s spine, the determination painted there. 

“Louis, I—”

“Alright boys and girls! Écoutez! Listen up! It’s time to board the train! We have carriage twenty three, so say your goodbyes, get on, and find a seat as quickly as possible! Allons-y s’il vous plait!” 

Louis tears his eyes away from Madame Trent and the students meandering their way onto the platform and train, and when he looks back at Harry, the curly haired boy looks downtrodden. There’s a frown pulling at his lips, and his eyebrows are furrowed. His head is dipped so that his eyes are on his shoes and his hair falls over his face. Louis steps forward and brushes the strands of his forehead, making Harry’s eyes snap to his. 

“Guess this is it, huh?” Louis says, offering a small, rueful smile. 

Harry gives a minute nod, but doesn’t say anything else. 

Louis stands there for a moment, hand still in Harry’s curls and eyes still locked with green, as he searches the expanse of his brain for the right words to say in this moment. It’s just barren up there it seems though, leaving Louis grasping at mist. And yet he can see every crack behind Harry’s eyes, so he does the only thing he can think of: closing the gap. He steps up on his toes and pulls Harry’s lips to his, pressing against the taller boy until there’s not a miniscule of space between them, until they mould together into one being. It’s a messy kiss, and it’s desperate, but it’s every emotion and every word not said sewn between brushes of lips and tongue. They cling to each other as if that will somehow stop time and ignore the cries of their lungs for air. Louis’ lungs eventually win out, and he pulls back slightly. This close, he can see every contour of Harry’s face: every freckle, every fine hair that’s begun to sprout over Harry’s upper lip, the light sheen to Harry’s eyes that wasn’t there before. 

“So…” Louis says, trying to swallow down the lump of emotion that’s magically lodged itself in his throat. 

“So,” Harry repeats, letting out a low, watery chuckle. 

“You never said that one last thing.” 

“It’s not important…” 

“Don’t say that! Come on, Hazza!” 

“It’s just—Lou, I—”

“Louis, come on! We have to go! Say goodbye to your French boyfriend already!” 

Louis turns his head to glare at Liam before turning back to Harry. “Write it to me, okay?” 

“Okay.” 

Harry has that heart breaking sad look back on his face, and Louis just wants to smooth it all away, wants to get that wide, dimpled smile back. But he knows he doesn’t have time let alone the capability to do that at the moment. As much as he joked about missing his train and staying wrapped up in Paris and Harry, he’s pretty sure he’d get murdered if it actually happened. 

_I wouldn’t put it past Mum to travel all the way here to do it._

But that doesn’t stop him from staying rooted to his spot, running his hand through Harry’s curls and down his cheek, memorising every fleck of gold in his eyes to haunt him in his dreams. 

“Louis!” 

“I know, Liam!” 

Louis presses his lips to Harry’s hard on last time before pulling away completely and grabbing his abandoned suitcase. 

“Bye, Haz!” 

Louis lets himself be dragged away by Liam, and he thinks he hears Harry’s ‘bye, Lou’ as he and Liam walk onto the platform. They climb onto the train, and Louis plops himself down in one of the window seats. He peers out, trying to see if he can see Harry, but their carriage is so far along that all he can see is the platform and the other trains. With a heavy sigh, Louis flops back against his seat, picking at the hem of his t-shirt and trying to keep his thoughts as blank as possible. He tries not to think about curly hair and green eyes and strong arms and warm laughs that he just left in the station. He tries not to think about the ocean— _motherfucking ocean_ —that will be between him and what he’s started to consider home. He tries not to think about the words weighing heavy in his heart from being unsaid, clawing and twisting at his insides until there’s a sting threatening at the back of his eyes. 

_Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t fucking cry._

And as the train pulls away, Louis watches with an impassive expression as the station becomes buildings and the buildings become countryside. He doesn’t even protest when Liam pulls him wordlessly against his side, just stays tucked there with his head on Liam’s shoulder for the rest of the ride back to London.

\---

It’s been a week and a half and Louis is not moping despite what his mother says.

 _I’m just jetlagged! That’s why I spend all my time in bed! Paris is one hour ahead after all!_

Of course that doesn’t stop his mother from giving him sympathetic looks every time he ventures out of his room to use the toilet or down the stairs for food. It doesn’t stop her from always having fresh, perfectly made tea and biscuits at the ready to give him. It doesn’t stop her from offering a spot on the sofa with her and a blanket after the girls have gone to sleep, which Louis knows is an offer for a talk or at the very least comfort cuddles. And he’s not moping. 

Even though that train back to London had felt like taking the path straight into the centre of hell, Louis had been happy to see his mother and sisters waiting for him at St Pancras. He had hugged them all tight and given his sisters their souvenirs and jabbered on about his adventures in Paris, and it all had been fine. That was until he got home. After dinner and after the girls had all gone to bed, Louis laid in his bed all alone, and it was like a tsunami and an avalanche hitting him at the same time, pushing and pulling his emotions in every direction. It left Louis exhausted, and yet he spent the rest of the night tossing and turning, feeling strangely empty without lanky limbs wrapped around him. 

And that was almost two weeks ago, and Louis still can’t quite get a good night’s sleep. He’s tried tea and soothing music and even counting sheep, but each morning he wakes up feeling like death. And he’s pretty sure he looks like death too. The last time he took a shower, he chanced a glance in the mirror and saw the dark circles that weigh down under his eyes and the scruff that clings unkempt to his jaw. He can’t find it in himself to care, though. Just like he can’t find it in himself to care when Lottie asks him if he’s ever going to change clothes. The answer is always no. Louis will be buried in this jumper if it comes down to it. 

_Even if it’s started to smell less and less like Harry…_

So today is like every other day for the past week and a half: Louis is wearing Harry’s jumper that he stole, seeking safety under his duvet while he sips his tea and his iPod cascades music around his room. He’s humming along as he traces the pattern of his mug when his bedroom door bursts open. Louis’ head snaps up at the intrusion to find an unimpressed looking Liam. 

“You’ve reached the state where your mother’s called me,” Liam explains.

“I don’t know why she’d do that. I’m perfectly fine,” Louis replies, turning away and flicking his hair.

Liam’s eyes sweep over Louis’ room, the clothes strewn on the floor, the abandoned mugs on the desk and bedside table, the empty crisp and sweets packets circling the bin. They land lastly on Louis in his rumbled state on the bed. 

“Yeah, it looks it,” Liam comments, stepping further into the room and taking a seat at the foot of Louis’ bed. “Look, Lou I—”

Liam stops midsentence, his eyebrows pinching together as he turns his head towards where Louis’ iPod is still playing. He turns his face back to the blue-eyed boy, his expression incredulous and tinged with a bit of concern. 

“Is this the Backstreet Boys?!” Liam asks. “Have you stooped so low that you’re listening to the Backstreet Boys?!” 

“I’m climbing the walls, Liam!” Louis defends, setting down his now empty mug of tea and burrowing further into his duvet. “This speaks to me on an emotional level!” 

“Oh wow. This is so much worse than I thought.” 

Louis feels the mattress shift before Liam is laying down beside him, offering friendly warmth and comfort. Even if they aren’t the arms Louis really wants, he still rolls over and presses his face into Liam’s shoulder. They stay like that for a few moments, staying quiet as the track on Louis’ iPod switches over. 

“You wanna talk about it?” Liam asks, keeping his voice low. 

“Not really.” 

“Okay.” 

A few more seconds pass. 

“I just—I never even told him I love him,” Louis explains, ignoring the emotions resurfacing that he’s tried to supress for a week in a half, the emotions that sting his eyes and make his lip tremble. The emotions that try and tear his heart from his chest, even though he’s pretty sure it’s not there anymore. 

“You love him?” Liam asks, voice careful. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I do. I love that stupid curly hair and those stupid dimples and that stupid camera, and I love that stupid French boy!” 

Admitting it feels equally like a weight off Louis’ shoulders while also like an anvil has just attached itself to his heart. He loves him. Louis Tomlinson loves Harry Styles, and he’s stuck here in London while everything he wants is across the sea in Paris. It makes Louis want to scream and pull his hair out and maybe rent a boat, but he also wants to stay in bed and cry in his best friend’s arms and clutch Harry’s jumper to himself like a lifeline. It’s like crashing but enjoying the whirlwind of it all and _fuck are my cheeks wet? Just great._

“Lou, you’re acting like this is the end of the world.” 

“Well it sort of is! He’s on the other side of the fucking world!” 

“He’s in _Paris_!” 

“I don’t need your sass, Liam!” 

“I just don’t get it, okay? I mean didn’t you guys exchange numbers and stuff?” 

“We exchanged addresses. Harry wanted to be all old fashioned and write letters to each other. He’s quirky like that.” 

“Well, have you written him?” 

“No…” 

“Louis!” 

“He hasn’t written either!” 

“Are you being serious right now? You’re acting like a child and you have no right to mope.” 

“I’m not moping!” 

“Just write him a letter, Lou for fucks sake!” 

“Fine… but after you leave.” 

“Alright, fine. I’ll leave now,” Liam says, standing up from the bed. He leans over and runs a hand through Louis’ hair. “Just stop beating yourself up over it all, Lou, yeah? Get up, take a shower, put on some clean clothes, and write him a letter. And call me if you need anything.” 

“Okay. Thanks, Li.” 

“And just think, if all else fails, I’m sure there will be lots of pretty boys at university in the fall!” 

Louis throws a pillow at Liam’s head in response, but the brown eyed boy just laughs. He leaves with a smile, and Louis continues to lay there for a few more moments before he will his body up and out of bed. He decides he’s going to follow Liam’s advice, so he drags himself to the bathroom and climbs into the shower. He takes an extra-long one, letting his thoughts wash away down the drain with the swirls of soap, letting all the emotions settle in his bones with the pounding of the water. He scrubs his hair and body, getting rid of the grime of the past few days, until he’s pink and clean and then steps out of the shower. Wrapped in the fluffiest towel in the house, Louis makes his way back into his bedroom. He tries to follow Liam’s instructions of putting on clean clothes, but he can’t help pulling on Harry’s jumper along with a fresh pair of boxers and trackies.

 _Baby steps, Tommo. Baby steps._

Louis plops down in his desk and grabs some paper and a pen. He turns his iPod to his soothing playlist, the soft sounds of Ed Sheeran beginning to play, and wracks his brain with how to start the letter. He scrawls ‘Haz’ across the top of the page then taps the page with the back of his pen.

> What’s up mate?

Louis quickly scratches that out, balling up the paper and tossing it in the waste bin.

> Dear Harry,  
>  How are you?

_Nope! That’s way too formal!_

Louis tosses that page in the bin as well and grabs a fresh one. He stares at the blank piece of paper, and it feels like it’s taunting him, the whiteness standing stark and mocking. There’s a mush of emotions and thoughts racing through his mind, but none are becoming a familiar scrawl of black across the page. 

_Think think think. It shouldn’t be this hard! This is Harry you’re writing to!_

Louis buries his face in his hands with a groan. It shouldn’t be this hard to write a simple letter especially to Harry of all people. He and Harry got on from the word go, they fell into each other so easily that there was no need for awkwardness, no need for secrets, no need for anything other than being themselves and banter. So why is Louis struggling so much now? The words should be flowing easily from his mind to the pen to the page. So why is it so stilted? Why is it so difficult to get across exactly what he’s thinking and feeling?

 _Because then the whole page would just be an endless stream of ‘I miss you’s._

Louis lets his head drop down to the desk, closing his eyes and willing his brain to cooperate. The soft crooning of Sam Garrett is now coming through his iPod, and Louis wonders if Harry would notice if he just wrote a letter full of song lyrics to him… 

_Eh. Worth a shot!_

> Haz,  
>  We can rejoice, we have a choice, and I’ll hold you in my arms until the end, from the start ‘til this world is torn apart.  
>  That’s what Sam told me. Sam Garrett, the singer, I mean. I’m not seeing some guy named Sam if that’s what you thought. I’m not seeing anyone! I’m sorry. I’m really bad at this. Why are letters so hard to write? It’s so much easier when you’re actually here to talk to. I wish you were here to talk to. I miss you. Did I mention that? I probably should’ve started with that. Because I do. I miss you. A lot actually. I also love you. Like completely gone totally in love with you. I should’ve said that as well. I’m sorry this letter is so bad. I think I’m going to try and come back to Paris during reading week. I hope you haven’t forgotten me by then…  
>  Love,  
>  Louis

It’s probably not his best work, but at the same time, Louis knows that it’s not going to get any better. He drops his pen on his desk and pulls himself up to his feet, switching off the desk lamp. He decides to leave the letter until the morning and trudges to his bed. He faceplants into the mattress, pulling the duvet over himself and preparing himself for another sleepless night.

_One curly haired sheep… two curly haired sheep…_

\---

The next morning, Louis decides to send the letter despite every fibre in his being screaming against it. Maybe he should rewrite it. Maybe he should at least cross out the bit about being in love with Harry. Maybe he should tear up the whole thing on the spot in front of the post box and toss the fragments into the wind. That seems to be what his brain wants with the way it pounds against the inside of his skull, the way it sends sparks of nerves down his skin. Of course Louis is nothing if not defiant, and he shoves the letter into the post box before he can second guess.

_Good decision, right…?_

The walk back to his house is excruciating, regret clawing at his bones and demanding to be felt. His heart feels like a hummingbird in his chest, a rabid one, though, that’s attacking his lungs and stealing all his oxygen while his stomach feels like a ship caught out in a storm. Louis tries to take calming, deep breathes as he takes refuge in the local park. He plops down on one of the benches lining the path and rubs soothing circles into his temples. He watches as a couple walks past him, their clasped hands swinging back and forth and soft secret smiles being shared. It makes Louis’ heart jump with familiarness and longing. It makes every fear of sending that letter wash away and a calmness settle over him. Maybe when Harry receives that letter, everything will just fall into place, just like Harry and Louis fell into each other. 

Louis makes his way home, and he actually feels a bit lighter. He smiles for real as he has dinner with his family, and plays with his youngest sisters after. And although it takes him a few hours, he falls asleep for once, his dreams dancing with curls and strong arms and sweet kisses and happiness.

\---

When Louis wakes up, the first thing he does is head for the post box. It’s empty, and Louis slinks back to his bedroom, ignoring the look Lottie is giving him from the kitchen.

 _Post comes in the afternoon… Right…_

The logic doesn’t stop Louis from checking the post every morning for the next week. Each day only brings more disappointment, though. There’s only bills and magazines and the local paper. Never is there a letter addressed to Louis in a familiar scrawl. It makes that regret from before begin to creep up Louis’ spine and niggle at the back of his mind. Maybe Harry thought it was just some sort of summer fling? Maybe Harry didn’t share Louis’ feelings about the relationship? Maybe it didn’t mean to Harry what it did to Louis? All of these questions claw at Louis’ brain and his heart and he’s left a puddle of limbs on his bed, strings of thoughts going in circles in his mind. There’s a little voice tucked somewhere in the back of his brain, or maybe in the back of his heart, reminding Louis of those looks Harry used to give him, those looks that he swore were only for him. Bright and glinting eyes and a smile so wide it looked like it hurt, those aren’t the faces of people who thought it was a meaningless fling. Not to mention the way Harry held him those last few hours together… but then why is there no response, no letter back? There is just deafening quiet, and Louis is back at square one, his crumpled heart not even in his grasp. 

“Louis? Love?” 

Louis startles at the sound, and when he sits up and looks over, his mother is standing in the doorway to his room, a soft smile gracing her lips. 

“I made lunch for the girls if you want to come down and join. Also a letter came for you with the post,” his mother explains. 

Louis is pretty sure that the Earth stops rotating at that moment in time. That or it may have doubled it speeds. Either way, he suddenly feels very dizzy. His eyes are fogging over around the edges, and his heart seems to have plans to cartwheel straight out of his chest. He’s not even sure where his thoughts are at the moment. There’s a very good chance his brain has actually shut down. Somehow, Louis will some air back into this lungs and wills his body to move. He clambers up from the bed with as much grace as he can muster and takes the daunting envelope from his mother’s hand. 

“Thanks, mum,” Louis says, hoping she doesn’t notice how foreign his voice sounds to even his own ears.

Once his mother is out of sight, Louis jumps back on his bed and tears open the envelope. He dumps the contents out onto his duvet, his heart a nervous thrum throughout his whole body. His fingers tingle as he examines the different things, and his brow furrows as he finds that there is no letter, just pictures, three of them to be exact. 

_Of course! This is Harry we’re talking about._

Louis picks up the first photo, a wide smiling pulling across his face as he recognises it. His face is bright and happy in the picture, Harry kissing his cheek, the love lock bridge glistening in the sun behind them. Louis bites his lip as he squints at the photo, running his finger over the photographed lock with his writing on it when he finds it. Louis clears his throat of the emotions threatening to bubble up and take home there and stands up from his bed. He goes over to his desk and pins the photo to his corkboard. He smiles softly as he stares at it for a few moments. It’s almost like a piece of his real home has found its way to his home. 

Louis takes a deep breath and heads back over to his bed, picking up the other two photos. He doesn’t recognise either. One is of a train pulling away from a station and the other is of a piece of paper of some sort. Louis lets the train photo drop on his bed, as he examines the photo of the paper, holding it in front of his face at different angles to try and read what it says. There’s something about being delighted about acceptance, but it just leaves Louis more confused than before. With a sigh, he lets that photo drop back onto the duvet as well. It’s then that he notices that the train photo landed upside down and that there’s writing across the back. He picks it back up and runs his fingers over the loops and lines of Harry writing.

> Dans cette vie ou la prochaine, je vais te trouver. Peut-être plus tôt que tu le penses.

Louis grabs his phone off his nightstand and pulls up google translate, typing in the message as fast as he can. He can’t stop the wide smile or the way his heart flutters in his chest as he reads what Harry said. He bites his lip hard as he grips the photo in his hands, feeling like his insides might explode at just the thought of seeing the curly haired boy again. God knows what will happen when he actually does see Harry again, when he gets to wrap himself up in Harry again, when he gets to kiss Harry again. And it’s all happening. Although, Louis is still confused a bit about how. Harry does have his address. Is he just going to show up on Louis’ doorstep one day?

Something clicks in Louis’ brain, and he scrambles to grab the last photo once more. He focuses his attention on the corner of the page photographed, and his cheeks start to hurt with how wide his smile grows, as he recognises the familiar blue logo of Kingston University London. Louis is just able to swallow down the squeal so as to not scare his mother, as he falls back onto his bed. That doesn’t stop the bouts of laughter that bubble past his lips, though, lightness filling his body like a cloud floating through his veins. 

_Stupid French boy…_

 

**Epilogue**

“Okay, so should I wear the red swimming trunks or the blue ones?”

“I think you should just not wear any swim trunks at all.” 

Louis throws the swim trunks in his hands at Harry’s head in response, but that doesn’t deter the cheeky smile that’s painted across the curly haired boy’s face. His eyes have that mischievous glint in them that seems to be more present with the time he spends with Louis, and the dimple is carved deep into Harry’s cheek. Louis refuses to let the sight get to him. 

“That’s not helpful at all, you cheeky twat!”

“You asked for my opinion and I gave it,” Harry explains, leaning forward on the bed to grab Louis’ hips and pull the smaller boy onto his lap. “And besides, why does it even matter what you wear?” 

“Well maybe I want to keep with my tradition of going to a different country and meeting a cute foreign boy.” 

Harry looks unimpressed but Louis isn’t disheartened. 

_Two can play at this game._

Louis sighs dreamily even as he wraps his arms around Harry’s shoulders. 

“I wonder what Spanish boys are like. I bet they’re tan unlike your pasty self.” 

“Heyyyyyy!” 

When Louis looks back at him, Harry has his pout out in full force, bottom lip jutting out and eyebrows pinched. His green eyes are swimming with annoyance, but Louis can still see the gold flecks of fond dancing there. 

“I’m only teasing. Put your angry kitten face away.” 

“No Spanish boys.”

“Fine, you big dork, no Spanish boys.” 

“That’s what I thought!” 

Harry falls back against the mattress, pulling Louis right down with him, who lands with a squeal— _a very manly squeal!_ —against Harry’s chest. Louis shifts until he’s comfortable draped over the taller boy and lets his eyes fall shut, content to just revel in Harry. In Harry’s arms wrapped around him. In Harry’s heart beating under his ear. In Harry’s heat radiating into his bones. Louis’ had Harry back in his life for a little over six weeks now, but his heart still flutters whenever he’s around the curly haired lad. 

Louis still remembers that day they were reunited. They were lucky enough to have been placed in the same halls, but since Harry was part of the international community, he moved into his room a week earlier. So Louis made his mother drive them down first thing in the morning when he could move in. He planned to put his things down in his room before going to find Harry’s flat and room, but he instead was greeted with an armful of lanky limbs and a mouthful of curls as soon as he stepped into the reception. Once Louis had righted himself from being barrelled into, he dropped his bag and wrapped his arms tight around Harry’s waist. He buried his face in the taller boy’s chest, breathing in that familiar scent he’d missed so much and reigniting those butterflies in his stomach. He finally had his boy back, and he couldn’t be happier. 

They’re first week back together was good. _Very good_. But that probably had to do with the fact it was Fresher’s Week. 

_And other things…_

They spent one day wandering around town, stopping into the different shops and buying new clothes and the books needed for their classes. They had lunch down by the river before spending the night in bed with takeaway pizza and a film. 

Another night they did a pub crawl of all the local pubs in the area, getting absolutely plastered and stumbling home at the wee hours of the morning. As they dragged themselves over the bridge towards their halls, Louis challenged Harry to dare him to jump into the Thames. He tried to use one of the street lamps to pull himself onto the stone railing while Harry giggled uncontrollably from the pavement. Eventually, they made it back to their building and up to Louis’ room, collapsing onto the bed and falling asleep almost immediately. 

They both dressed up at the end of the week and went to Fresher’s Ball together, spending most of the night in the silent disco tent, dancing like idiots with each other. Louis twirled Harry around and shook his bum while classic party jams played through the headphones. Normally, Louis would’ve been wary to embarrass himself so blatantly but he couldn’t find it in himself to care when Harry had a blinding smile painted across his face. Especially when that smile was directed at him. 

When classes began Monday, things slowed down. While Louis didn’t have many hours in the week for his actual classes, more often than not he found himself spending his evenings in the drama building for rehearsals, and Harry’s photography classes had a lot of reading involved. They still spent time together though, often lounging in Louis’ room with books strewn about on the desk and bed. In fact, Harry’s had taken up residence in Louis’ room under the pretence that two of his flatmates were loud and threw parties in their kitchen every week. Louis would’ve called him out on his bullshit and complained about trying to fit two people in a single bed, but if he’s honest, Louis sleeps better with Harry’s octopus limbs wrapped around him and Harry’s body heat seeping into his back. 

Of course that was weeks ago, and now it’s reading week. Most students are using the week to catch up on classwork, some even starting on their assessments, but to Louis a week off from classes means holiday. It takes some convincing, but soon Louis is booking tickets to Barcelona. Even Liam decides to tag along, inviting his host sibling Niall from the summer. Louis tries not to tease, but he still can’t hold back the occasional retort. 

_I got a cute foreign boyfriend first, okay?!_

And so when Liam’s politics class lets out on Friday afternoon, the boys head out, taking the bus to Heathrow Airport. It’s a short flight luckily, and they meet up with Niall at the train station before heading to their hostel. Their hostel is tucked away from the city centre and there’s twelve per a room, but it was cheap, and it’s only for sleep anyways, so Louis can’t find it in himself to care. All four boys drop their things off in their room before heading out to find food. They find a restaurant that looks good enough, a menu full of delectable sounding tapas and outdoor seating that has space. They order a variety of tapas to share between the four of them and chat idly while they wait for their food. Harry takes Louis’ hand over the table, playing with his fingers while Niall recounts a funny story that happened in one of his classes. 

“… and then Josh just went completely mental! And the professor was just so confused about whether to shout or help and…” 

“Look at Liam; he’s not even subtle,” Louis breathes into Harry’s ear, making the taller boy fall into a fit of giggles. 

“You two are disgusting,” Niall teases from across the table. 

“Shush, Horan! I don’t care about your stupid French words,” Louis shoots back, although there’s no real fire behind it. 

“Heyyy,” Harry whines from beside him. “I’m French.” 

“Not for long, dear Harold. We’ll turn you English soon enough, have you making proper cups of tea and everything with none of that sugar shit you put in your cuppas.” 

Harry shakes his head fondly and tries to look mad, but that ever present dimple and lingering smile give him away. So Louis presses himself against Harry’s side and kisses his cheek as the waitress brings their food to their table. The four laugh and eat, swatting at hands as they grab food off of the various plates strewn across the table. They order drinks once they’re finished, and head back to the hostel once the sun begins sinking low in the sky.

\---

The next morning, Louis awakes to a body shifting beside him, almost as if it’s trying to get away, which that simply won’t do. Louis peeks open one of his eyes and is greeted by the room of their hostel still dowsed in darkness, no bright Barcelona sun coming in through the open window. Louis groans. Louis feels Harry still beside him then his raspy low voice is cutting through the silence in the room.

“Oh good; you’re awake. Let’s go,” Harry whispers. 

“Whaaa?” 

_Articulate as ever in the morning…_

“Come on. Up and at ‘em.” 

“Where’re you going?” 

“To the beach, to see the sunrise.” 

“You’re fucking kidding me, right?” 

“Don’t you want to see the sunrise, Lou?” 

“No, I want to sleep, you twat!”

“But it’ll be almost as beautiful as you,” Harry whispers, leaning in to press the words right against Louis’ ear. 

“Compliments will get you nowhere,” Louis grumbles, pressing the threatening smile into the pillow. 

“What about kisses and tea?” 

Louis sighs, but thirty minutes later, he finds himself sitting on the beach, wearing one of Harry’s hoodies and sitting in between the taller boy’s legs, watching the sun rise above the horizon. Louis won’t admit it out loud, but it’s one of his favourite mornings. Harry is warm and solid behind him, and his hands are secure around Louis’ hips. It’s so early that their surroundings are almost silent, save for the few restaurants preparing for the day and the small waves lapping up against the shore. It’s peaceful, and Louis feels sleepy but content. Not to mention that the sunset is beautiful. The sky is alight in pinks and baby blues, as the sun glides up into the sky, licking gold amongst the clouds. 

A few hours later, Liam and Niall make their way down to the beach and join the couple. The four boys lounge around in the sun until it’s high in the sky before scampering down into the water. It’s cool and refreshing and Louis wastes no time in jumping on Harry’s back and tackling the French boy into water. Harry comes up spluttering but laughing, so Louis just continues to cling to his back like a koala. 

“I think there’s leeches in the water,” Harry says seriously to Liam and Niall who are floating on their backs. 

“Excuse you!” Louis reprimands, pulling on Harry’s curls in punishment. 

“A cute leech?” 

“That’s what I like to hear.” 

Harry lurches forward then, sending Louis flying over his shoulders and into the water with a big splash. When Louis breaks the surface again, he whips his wet hair out of his face and settles Harry with a glare. The curly haired boy doesn’t seem to be fazed, wearing a wide smirk. 

_I’ve trained him too well._

“You’re not a very good leech,” Harry teases. 

“Shut up!” Louis retorts, splashing Harry with water. 

“Was that a challenge, Tomlinson? Because it seemed like a challenge.” 

And just like that all-out war breaks out between the two boys. They splash back and forth, laughter and squeals bouncing off the water. Louis dives under the water, planning a sneak attack. He jumps out of the water and straight at Harry, attempting to tackle him back into the water again, but Harry just ends up catching him in his arms. Louis wraps his legs around Harry’s waist to keep from falling back and is faced with a face plastered with dripping curls and wearing that wide, beautiful smile Louis has come to love so much. 

Louis opens his mouth to make some sort of clever comment, but before he can get out so much as one syllable, Harry is leaning forward and connecting their lips. Water is dripping down both their faces, turning the kiss salty, but Louis doesn’t care, and he’d be willing to bet that Harry doesn’t either. They kiss for a few moments, the sun beginning to dry the water on their skin before Harry pulls back. He’s still got a smile on his face, but it’s softer, just for Louis. 

“I love you.” 

“I love you too, Haz.” 

The two boys are broken out of their own little world by gagging sounds coming from their left. They both look over to see Liam and Niall pulling faces and rolling their eyes at them. 

“Tag team?” Harry asks. 

“Dream team.” 

Later, Louis lays out in the afternoon sun, perfecting his tan. He turns his head where it’s resting against his towel and sees Harry with his camera, taking photos of the different beach goers. It makes Louis think back to that first day, lost and stumbling into a boy with gangly limbs and too big a heart, who took too many pictures. It brings a smile to the blue eyed boys face. Especially when he thinks of now with an array of photos blue-tacked to his room in halls—most of him and Harry—, a heart full of love, and that same boy that he kinda wouldn’t mind spending forever with. 

 

**FIN!**

**Author's Note:**

> I love hearing comments and feedback, so please share your thoughts! :) My tumblr is: c-e-d-dreamer


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